


Good Things Come In Threes

by RZZMG



Series: Hermione x Draco stories [48]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Hermione Granger, Banter, Blinny, Curses, Dark Comedy, Elixir Of Life, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Language, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Healer Draco Malfoy, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Necromancy, Neville's frog, Non-Explicit Sex, Nottpott, Philosopher's Stone, Plot, Post-Hogwarts, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Snarky Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:07:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 26,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27800512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RZZMG/pseuds/RZZMG
Summary: Draco Malfoy's been cursed with Lord Voldemort's Necromantic powers, and now everything he touches that is dead is reborn as a monstrous revenant! Determined to rid himself of the curse, he concocts a scheme to win over Hermione Granger to guarantee her help, for it seems she knows the secret to the Philosopher's Stone and the Elixir of Life it produces...and that ancient magic may just be the key to a cure!Post-war, 8th year. A/U (Epilogue? What Epilogue?).
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Charlie Weasley, Theodore Nott/Harry Potter
Series: Hermione x Draco stories [48]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/332626
Comments: 11
Kudos: 68
Collections: round 12 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Darkrivertempest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/gifts).



> DramioneDuet 2020 Fest entry.
> 
> Prompt: Pushing Daisies AU... sort of. Voldemort did things to Draco during the war. Bad things, supernatural things. Once the smoke has cleared, Draco realizes he can bring someone back to life with a touch of his fingers. He didn't ask for this 'gift', but he suspects Voldemort imbued Draco with this power in case he met a mortal end, thinking Draco would bring him back to life. But that's the furthest thing from Draco's mind. In fact, he's pretty sure if anyone found out about his new ability, all hell would break loose. So, who can he trust? Granger of course. And she's bound and determined to help him keep his secret.
> 
> Prompter's LJ username: rivertempest
> 
> Era: Post DH, EWE 
> 
> Kinks: AU's, humor, witty banter, romance, kissing/first kisses, horror, dark comedy, angst with a happy ending, pining from afar, romance, friends-to-lovers, mischievous behavior, lots of plot - make me believe they are together for a reason! Slow build relationship, sexy times
> 
> THANK YOU to my fantastic beta, Ladysashi, who rights my wrongs and saves the day every time! Thanks to my alpha, gjeangirl, whose brainstorms always ignite my muse! And finally, thank you to Ningloreth for once more hosting and modding this fantastic fest -- I am so grateful for all you do for this fandom, and for giving me extension after extension to assure I'm satisfied with my submission. You are the best! To my duet prompter, Rivertempest -- I hope you like it! Happy Holidays!!! XOXO

* * *

**September, 1998**

When Longbottom’s warty familiar shook off the mantle of death and opened its weirdly slanted eyes, blinking no differently than any other species of giant frog might after being awoken from a long winter slumber, Draco thought he was in the clear and let out a great sigh of relief.

Then the creature opened its adorably pouting mouth to show off it brand-new set of fangs…

The heir to the Malfoy reputation was half way up the hill heading away from Hagrid’s hut and back to the castle before a Slytherin could shout, ‘Surprise!’ Behind him there rang out the undead frog’s war cry, sonorous and similar to that of a dragon’s. On Helium.

_Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!_

Why was it that bad things were always lumped into threes?

First his eagle owl, then his father’s favourite Abraxan, and now this…

Risking a glance over his shoulder caused Draco to stumble to his knees, but it gave him time to see what came next: the Quaffle-sized Desert Rain Frog bounded off into the Forbidden Forest to hunt down the first of its warm-blooded prey, its wet, pink tongue lolling from its mouth with an amphibian’s amused anticipation of the meal ahead.

Bloody, buggering hell, but he’d done it again! Whatever freaky black magic Voldemort had cursed him with just before the Final Battle, when he’d pulled Draco aside to cast a strange spell upon his hands, it was still active. It hadn’t gone away—not even after he’d tried washing his hands in blessed waters, burning them in purifying fire, and casting every known counter-curse he knew!

_“If I should fall, Draco, you are to take my body to a safe place. Your father will know where to go. Follow him, and in a few months, you will use the gift I have just bestowed upon you to renew me. Do you understand, little Malfoy? Fail me in this, and I will haunt you forever.”_

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

His father was in prison for life and Voldemort’s body had been cremated, per the Ministry’s orders. There was no way he could fulfill the Dark Lord’s last wishes, even had he’d wanted to obey—which he didn’t.

That fucking mad bastard had attempted to assure his resurrection by turning Draco into some kind of unwilling Necromancer, and now Draco had no way of terminating the spell!

_“I will haunt you forever.”_

Shit, no!

There had to be a way to turn it off. Otherwise he would never be able to touch anyone ever again. Not skin-to-skin anyway. No hugging his mother, no tapping knuckles with Theo, no blow-jobs from witches. If he attempted any of those things…

A triumphant frog’s scream echoed through the forest behind him.

It had killed its first meal.

All he’d done was skim its grassy bones in the dirt and now the damn thing was probably feasting on some unsuspecting centaur for lunch. If it could do that to the dead with a touch, who knew what this ‘gift’ could do to the living!

That decided it, then: he was just going to have to cover his hands from now on, or at least until he found a cure. It was the only way to protect everyone else from what he’d become.

Where would he even start looking for a counter beyond the ones he’d already tried, though? The idea was daunting and well above his pay-grade. Whatever Voldemort had done to him had been advanced black magic that he had no knowledge how to reverse.

His mother _might_ have been able to help, given her occasional dabbling in the dark arts, except her wand had been confiscated by the Ministry and she was forbidden from practicing magic for the next five years. She’d also been confined to the manor under house-arrest, with no Floo access, per the Wizengamot, so she couldn’t even seek outside consulting on his behalf while he was Ministry-ordered to attend school unless it was by owl…which was potentially dangerous given what had happened over the summer to Hermes, his owl.

The Ministry was definitely not an option, either. He was already walking a fine edge with them and they were itching for any excuse to throw his arse into prison next to his father for the rest of his life.

McGonagall…the woman barely tolerated his return to her school, and had most likely done so only as a result of the court’s order that Draco complete an eighth year and pass all his N.E.W.T.s. If not for that, she’d have gladly warded the gates against his entry, he thought. No, she was not an ally.

As for his friends in Slytherin… Pansy had moved to Germany to start over, cutting off everyone post-war, and Blaise had been picked up by the Italian National Quidditch league and had moved to Milan. Greg and Theo were here at school this do-over year, but they had their own issues and Ministry-sanctioned requirements to deal with, honestly. Flint and Crabbe were dead from the war, and Pucey, Bulstrode, and Daphne had openly snubbed him, making it clear those relationships were severed.

That left precisely NO ONE to help him if he was caught utilizing this kind of illegal dark magic, even if he wasn’t sure how exactly he was doing it. He would swing by the neck the same as the other Death Eaters had if the Aurors caught wind of his ability to reanimate corpses…

_“—I respectfully disagree, your Honor and esteemed members of this court. Draco Malfoy had every reason to betray me to his aunt, and yet he did not. Regardless of the reasons postulated by certain members of this court and the public for why he might have acted in such a manner, I am alive as a result of that choice, and for that, I owe Draco my life…”_

Granger.

Of course.

The only one of the Gryffindor trio to have returned to Hogwarts this year to sit her N.E.W.T.s, she was certainly bright enough in the research department to help him get answers…and she owed him, according to what she’d said at trial. Did that still hold true, though? She might consider that speaking on his behalf for a lighter sentence as clearing the debt between them.

Hmm.

No choice.

He was going to have to beg ‘do-gooder’ Granger for help or bust.

It would be a tricky thing to gain her agreement, however, given their volatile background. He couldn’t simply ask her outright for such a huge favour, as they were hardly friends.

…

…

…They could be, though.

Winning her over with a little Slytherin charm and yanking her heartstrings with his sad tale might just do the trick. She _was_ a well-known sucker for the underdog, after all. The key would be finding an excuse to get in close and constant, of convincing her that he’d turned over a new leaf, thus gaining her sympathies.

Perhaps he could suddenly be plagued by a new injury or condition, one not horribly debilitating or infectious in nature as to alert McGonagall or the staff, but something familiar that many people might struggle with on a regular basis. Granger would definitely notice that and be moved by it.

At the same time, he could suddenly become consumed with the need to do well in school, to prove he was a changed man. Taking meticulous notes in class and appearing to be legitimately engaged in every subject, asking intelligent and respectfully challenging questions of the professors could really sell the point that he was taking this make-up year with the seriousness the Ministry thought he ought. Granger would definitely respect that show of maturity.

Volunteerism. That was always a solid way to fix a reputation. His father and mother had successfully employed the tactic after Voldemort had first been vanquished years ago, enlisting to serve on the Board of Governors and running various charities to raise money for politically-important causes. That good work had repaired most of the damage they’d faced for having any connection to the Dark Lord and it had even seated them at the Ministry’s various decision-making tables once more. It had worked for them, so why not for him? Surely Draco could find some worthy cause to join—like Madam Pomfrey’s offer for eighth year volunteers to learn the healing arts through a part-time apprenticeship, a skill he was already _well_ acquainted with given the number of times he’d had to heal himself, his mother, and his father when Voldemort had been living in his home. Joining that program would definitely show Granger that he had learned his lessons well from the war.

And above all else, he would not antagonize anyone from Gryffindor house.

Yes, this plan just might work…

Draco picked up his pace, continuing towards the castle while considering the details of his plan to make a new best friend of Hermione Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to see what a Desert Rain Frog looks and sounds like, here's a YouTube video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBkWhkAZ9ds. 
> 
> Now picture it the size of your head...with fangs and an appetite for flesh.
> 
> You're welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wiki, "In alchemy, the term **chrysopoeia** means 'transmutation into gold'. It symbolically indicates the creation of the philosopher's stone and the completion of the Great Work."

* * *

Having worked out the particulars of his plan in excruciating detail in his head since earlier that morning, Draco set about putting it into motion in Muggle Studies that same afternoon…

“That’s Justin’s seat,” Granger pointed out as she set her bag on the desk next to the one Draco had taken—the one Finch-Fletchley had previously occupied during their first lesson of the new term. “We’ve agreed to be study partners. I’d prefer him to sit there.”

Draco didn’t rise to her antagonism, despite everything inside him that begged to bark back at her that it was a free world again, and seats were not assigned.

Points for maturity.

Instead, reaching into his satchel, he took out a pair of dashing spectacles he’d transfigured from Greg’s forgotten Remembrall (found under a bed in their previously shared room last year) and the metal wire that held up Salazar Slytherin’s picture frame in his dormitory, and set the glasses on the bridge of his nose. Having modeled the glasses in the second floor boy’s bathroom mirror before arriving to class, Draco knew they looked smashing on him, even if they served absolutely no corrective purpose and were merely an accessory.

Potter, eat your heart out.

“I can’t see as well from the back of the classroom with these new glasses,” he lied, running an anxious hand over his fringe to give it that windblown and tousled look that girls tended to adore, he knew from past experience. “This seat is the best view of the chalkboard and doesn’t strain my eyes. Do you mind the switch, just until I adjust?”

Granger didn’t reply right away, but her incredulous expression as she took him in under these new circumstances was priceless. From the way she was staring, especially when he lowered his lids and angled a slow smile at her… Well, well. Blaise had been right when he’d declared years ago that a pair of smart glasses made girls run all gooey between the legs, the same as a Quidditch uniform did.

Having both was the secret to Potter’s success with the She-Weasel, or so Zabini had maintained (somewhat sourly).

It seemed Draco’s friend hadn’t been full of shite after all.

Watching the way Granger’s cheeks pinked and her pupils dilated with obvious attraction…

Well, now she knew how he’d felt the night of the Yule Ball, when he’d spent those long hours fixated on how a bit of makeup, some hair cream, and a snug-fitting periwinkle-blue dress could completely alter one’s opinions of a person.

More importantly, needing glasses for schoolwork fit Draco’s plans for a sympathetic impairment, as wearing them wouldn’t alarm the teachers, but it would definitely garner him the attention and buy him the excuses he needed to slither in closer to Granger.

And she certainly seemed to like the look on him.

Three pluses for the win!

“F-fine,” Granger stammered, hurriedly taking the seat next to him and rummaging through her satchel to pull out her notepad and a Muggle pen. Her cheeks were a lovely apple red and her pronounced frown screamed that she hadn’t liked that fact at all. “Just don’t expect me to share my notes.”

“Thanks, and…duly _noted_.”

Personally, Draco thought the pun a slick one, and apparently Granger did as well, judging from the wry twist of her lips.

The rest of the class passed exactly as Draco had planned, and by the time it was over and they were packing up, it was clear he’d gone a long way towards accomplishing his goal in only a single hour: Granger had actually said, ‘good-bye’ to him…and with a tentative smile.

He whistled a happy tune as he made his way to Divination, the only class Granger didn’t take this do-over year.

Two months at most, he figured, and he’d have the swotty Gryffindor willing to help him with his little Necromancy problem.

She did, after all, have a talent for ridding the world of dark magic.

**o.O.o**

Three days later, Draco strolled into the library immediately after dinner, hoping to continue ‘Operation: Granger Changer’ by creatively negotiating an ‘accidental’ meet-greet-and-seat with her.

In other words, he took over her favourite study nook and waited for her to show up, passing the time doing homework.

He was well into the chapter on Alchemical Transmutation when she finally showed up. As expected, his Gryffindor target was more than a little possessive of the coveted spot in the far back corner, nearest the Restricted Section, which saw little traffic and afforded greater privacy.

“Ahem. Excuse me, but everyone knows _I_ study here. It’s been my spot for years.”

Draco kept his expression carefully innocent, once again biting down on the need to remind her that she didn’t, technically, own any particular part of the castle. “Can we share? I rather like the way the light reflects in here. It doesn’t give me quite the same headache as elsewhere in this place, especially with these new glasses.”

To drive home the excuse, he adjusted the spectacles so they sat higher up on his nose—reminding her that he was, once again, at a disadvantage…all to tug at her sympathies.

Once more, her pupils expanded and her face took on a lovely shade of rose.

“Er…”

“I was just reading the chapter on Cleopatra the Alchemist’s Chrysopoeia,” he said, changing the subject to keep her off-kilter and to turn the discussion away from a potential fight. He was here now and she was just going to have to accept that fact. Besides, there were two chairs to one table, so it was clearly, meant to be a shared space anyway. “Fascinating idea, making gold from other metals. Don’t think it would fool the goblins though, do you?”

Granger sputtered in disbelief at both his friendly offer and his research efforts.

“Chrysopoeia? That’s eight chapters ahead of the current material. Why are you reading that far in advance?”

He shrugged, playing it cool. “Why not? I did have the remainder of the summer after my trial to do nothing but read, since I was locked inside the manor,” he reminded her, and turned his attention back to his Alchemy textbook, to make it clear he considered his studies a serious endeavour. “And since I was court-ordered to return to school anyway, it seemed a good use of my time to get ahead of my studies. You understand, of course.”

Technically, all true.

He had spent the rest of this past summer at home, intending to get ahead of his studies, but only so he could petition to take his N.E.W.T.s early so he could be done with Hogwarts forever. He’d planned on an Easter release, three months ahead of the rest of the school, believing the condemnation and ostracism by then would be too much to bear.

Imagine his surprise when he’d found it to be just the opposite thus far.

That wasn’t to say he didn’t get his fair share of wary, distrustful glances, especially as Slytherin house remained the odd-man-out of most inter-house unity anyway. However, most of the students weren’t as openly hostile towards an ex-Death Eater as he’d imagined. No one had attempted to bully him yet and they were already a week into classes...although the year had only just begun, so it was too early to say things would remain this calm forever.

Still, on the surface, it appeared that Potter and Granger speaking on his behalf at his trial, painting him as a victim of circumstance and even showing a pinch of courage there during their capture, had gone a long way in winning back some good points for him.

Now that he considered it from that angle, maybe it wasn’t Granger who owed him anything more.

Could it be instead that he actually owed her?

…

…

…Nah.

“If you were on house-arrest,” she interrupted his train of thought to wield her logic as a weapon against him, “then how did you get access to this year’s syllabus in advance?”

Honestly, the witch still thought like a Muggle at times, didn’t she?

He glanced up at her and threw her a sly smile, one he knew used to make the girls flustered back before his whole Voldmort-ruined-my-life phase. “You see, Granger, there are these two modes of wizarding communication called a ‘Floo’ and an ‘owl’,” he teased, “and when used in combination they can be effective in communication with far off places like Hogwarts—”

“Oh, shut it.”

She huffed and slumped down into the seat across from him, arms crossed and looking like she wanted to squash him like a bug. “Fine, this is a public spot, so I really can’t tell you to go away, I suppose, but it is rude of you to take up so much room. At least share the table.”

“Of course,” he amenably agreed, and setting his book down he began rearranging the space so she could utilize it as well.

See, he could be nice when required.

“Thank you,” she offered begrudgingly and set about making the allotted space hers, but filling it with her books and strange Muggle writing utensils. “So…you’re near-sighted then?”

Was he? What was the difference?

He’d have to look it up later.

“I guess,” he agreed, hoping that was the right answer.

“When did you find out?”

How long did it take to get diagnosed and a set of glasses made? Damn, he should have researched this better.

“Two weeks ago,” he lied. “Just before school began.”

“That’s a quick turn-around on a pair of magical spectacles.”

Maybe for someone like Potter, her friend, but not for a Malfoy, even one with as bad a reputation as he currently had. Money always talked louder than hate.

“When you have vaults filled with galleons, Granger, you can make the world jump to your tune.”

She gave an inelegant snort, as if the concept offended her, even if she did resentfully agree. “Oh, how awful it must be to be rich and infamous,” she growled.

Draco clenched his jaw and refused to rise to the bait. The old, familiar anger at being mocked by her rose up within him, reminding him of all the times she’d made him feel insignificant and loathsome, but once again he held back the scathing rebuttal that hovered behind his teeth. He had a plan, and that meant his pride needed to bow down for the time being or he’d risk driving Granger away…and then he’d be stuck in this non-life forever, as much a living corpse as his former Master had been.

If the thought of shriveling up into a grey, skeletal husk wasn’t an incentive to be nice, nothing else would be.

Besides, this kind of pain was nothing in the long run. He could do the suck-up thing— _had_ played exactly the same game when Voldemort had lived in his home. It was all that had kept him alive then, and it just might be all that could save him this time, too.

So, Draco bit his tongue again and waited out his rival.

It didn’t take more than a few minutes. Granger didn’t care for silences in general, especially when there was an opportunity for her to lord her big bank of knowledge over others. She might not be galleon-rich, but she definitely owned a wealth of trivia in that head of hers.

“Yes, the goblins can tell the difference,” she told him, answering his earlier question. With a careful stepping into the metaphorical current, treading past the bad blood from their past, she tentatively accepted his olive branch. “Magically-faked gold is the reason they went to war the second time with humans—they don’t like being lied to.”

When it appeared Draco was giving her all of his attention, seemingly interested in what she had to say, she regained her confidence and began lecturing.

“I don’t recommend trying to trick them, either, as they’re not above killing and eating us. The textbook won’t tell you that, by the way, as it was written with a ‘humans first’ bias. Its author, Sebastien Perrot, was candidly anthropocentric and felt other species’ contributions to magic barely merited a footnote.”

She was clearly disgusted by such prejudice.

Ignoring the criticism of Perrot entirely, not wanting to open that can of worms, Draco instead asked, “Goblins eat humans?” In truth, he was genuinely fascinated by such a strange, ghoulish fact. “I guess that explains all the fangs.”

Many a night Draco had gone to sleep as a young child after a day trip to Gringotts and he would have frightening dreams about grinning goblins flashing rows of needle-sharp teeth.

“They’re dark Fae,” Granger reminded him, examining her fingernails. Half her tips were stained indigo blue from the traditional ink she used, he noted. “They’re not known for being discriminating about where their meat comes from.”

“Okay, I’m not sure I ever wanted to know that,” he admitted with a shudder. “Thanks for the nightmares, Granger.”

Across the table, his rival smirked. He noted it was more a mischievous twist of her lips, though, rather than a vicious one, and took that as a positive sign.

“Tell me something else about the book,” he challenged her, pushing it her way and settling back in his chair to listen.

She turned his textbook towards her, seemed to consider what she knew about it. “Well, I can definitely tell you that using the Chrysopoeia isn’t how Nicholas Flammel made the Philosopher’s Stone, so you can forget such nonsense. Perrot didn’t actually have any sort of a friendly relationship with Flammel, but he’d wanted to, so he made up much of what he wrote about him in this book. I suspect it was the only way he could get his publisher to give him an advance or better proceeds from the book sales. In any case, his account of the Stone’s creation is totally wrong here. Flammel made the Stone by experimenting with potions ingredients until he came up with the right combination. He didn’t build on anyone else’s research.”

“And you know this how?”

She shrugged. “I wrote to Flammel in the months before his death and asked him about the Stone. Dumbledore knew him and gave me his address.”

“You’re implying Flammel gave _you_ the formulae for making a Philosopher’s Stone?” Now it was Draco’s turn to scoff. “And I suppose you made an Elixir of Life from it, too?”

Granger rolled her eyes.

“Of course he didn’t _give_ me the recipe,” she told him, “but he did answer many of my questions on the subject and told me, in a roundabout manner, the list of ingredients for it. I’ve deduced his meaning from those letters and am confident I know where to start, should I ever feel the need…which I don’t, since playing with a potion that requires Zoemancy, Necromancy, _and_ Chronomancy in its preparation is inherently dangerous.”

Zoemancy…Life magic.

Necromancy…Death magic.

Chronomancy…Time magic

The three most powerful magicks in the world went into the making of the Philosopher’s Stone?

…

…

…That made perfect sense, actually.

Genuinely interested in the topic— _what ambitious aspiring Potions Master wouldn’t be in Alchemical and Conjuration theory?_ —he set his book aside, making a split decision that tonight was better spent in healthy debate with Granger, to cement the new direction of his acquaintanceship with the witch. Perhaps if she saw him as an intellectual equal, or near approximation, that would go a long way in winning her over, too.

“How is it possible to accurately conclude the formulae for _any_ potion based on a hunch and a vague ingredient list?” he challenged her, knowing she’d rise to it. She never turned down an opportunity for a fight, especially with him. “Potions are complex concoctions, the order in which ingredients are added, and the stirring and wand work and timing are everything. Do it wrong and you can easily turn a healing draught into a poison. It sounds like you’re casting in the dark here, Granger.”

“Did you forget the part where we’re in Advanced Potions together, Malfoy? And as I’m sure _you’re_ aware, there’s an analogous pattern to potions of a similar type—a rhyme to every reasonable instruction, as it were. Riddling that out at each stage of a brewing isn’t difficult, if one pays attention. As for the ingredient list, I _am_ perfectly capable of reading between the lines of Flammel’s letters, as I said,” she told him, matter of fact. “There was enough of an information trade in those months of back-and-forth correspondence to be able to reverse engineer the ingredients, I’m quite certain.”

“You don’t have an actual recipe, though. How could you be sure you’d get it right?”

“Trial and error. Experimentation. Plus, a healthy dose of female intuition.”

“I’ll give you the first two, but the third… There’s no such thing.”

She laughed in his face at that. “If it helps you to think so. I’m sure your mother might have a thing or two to say about it, and Harry and Ron would definitely disagree with you.”

“In what way?”

In exacting detail, she told him, using the last seven years of Voldemort-inspired experiences as proof-positive as to her perceptive abilities—and to the veracity of a female sixth sense. As she spun her tales, he’d also learned things about Hermione Granger he’d never even guessed, as well as filled in some gaps in his own knowledge as to what his worst rivals had been up to during that time…

Potter and Weasley had tricked him with Polyjuice Potion in second year?

Sirius Black had been framed by one of his best mates?

Viktor Krum was actually a clumsy dancer and an even worse kisser?

In the end, his study companion sold him on that fact that, at the very least, he’d picked the right person to help him in finding a cure for his curse. Granger was the perfect swot for the job. “This girl-tuition, thing…it sounds like clairvoyance to me,” he told her as the topic wound down, knowing well her hatred for all-things Divination based and wanting to get in one last jab. “You sure you’re not just an untrained Seer?”

The ‘I will end you if you dare say that again’ glare she tossed his way made him grin.

The conversation came to an official end when the nine o’clock bell rang, signaling the Library was now closed.

As they individually gathered their things and prepared to leave, Draco felt pleased at how their first real conversation had ended. This was the most they’d ever spoken to each other in one go, and it was clear now that they had much in common, including a passion for debating magical theory and potions. She was an interesting conversationalist and knew precisely when to call him out when he pushed too far—a talent she’d surely acquired in her handling of Weasley for seven years.

Ironically, he’d learned a lot from her tonight, too, facts that would require additional processing later, when he was alone.

Perhaps the greatest surprise, however, was that Granger was unexpectedly funny…and really quite cute when she was _being_ funny. Her face was quite expressive and when she laughed, the freckles sprinkled lightly across the bridge of her nose gave her enough of a girl-next-door look to keep the sultry tilt of her dark, expressive eyes from being too sensual.

And those lips…

Groan.

Draco had spent the last ten minutes of their talk trying not to pay attention to the perfect curves of her mouth.

How had he never noticed them before?

He wasn’t sure he’d ever repeat such an observation to her face, obviously, but within the secret spaces in his mind, he did recognise all those things about her…and it left him as confused as he’d felt the night of the Yule Ball.

Before she left their little private nook, she unexpectedly turned back to him.

“Thanks for sharing, Malfoy.”

“It was your spot first,” he conceded.

When she lingered a few moments longer, Draco risked a look to determine why. She was just standing at the end of the short aisle, biting her bottom lip in deliberation of saying more, but seemed unsure.

God, those lips!

“You’re different this year,” she finally said.

He stared over at her, thinking she was too. Something about her had certainly softened. She was more forgiving, for instance, and quieter overall. Rumour said she’d turned down the Head Girl position before it was offered to Susan Bones, and she’d quit being the teacher’s pet in their classes. And she wasn’t quite as adamant that she hate him this year, either.

“The war changed my perspective,” he replied, opting for truth. “It changed everything for me.”

It had, too. He no longer subscribed to his parents’ beliefs regarding magical blood status, especially after finding out Voldemort had been a half-blood born of a Muggle father. And he’d witnessed enough cruelty and death in the name of ‘supremacy’ to prove its only power was to terrorize and destroy. For him, the Dark Lord’s vision for the future hadn’t been about living, but about how to avoid dying.

Her smile was shy and hopeful.

“I can tell.”

With that, she was gone.

Draco let out a heavy sigh of relief.

It was a good start.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Every night after that, Draco arranged to ‘accidentally’ meet up with Granger in what was quickly becoming, in his mind, _their_ study nook.

“Fine,” she huffed after the end of the first week, “I suppose I’ll just have to accept that you’ve decided to roost in my favourite spot like some sort of Augurey.”

“How magnanimous of you,” he teased with a small smile without pulling his eyes from the book he was reading. “Just don’t use this shared space as an excuse to cheat from my notes, Granger.”

“Your notes are chicken scratch, Malfoy. No one could possibly read that gibberish but you.”

“Ahhh, so you admit to having _attempted_ to read them then?”

She lightly kicked him under the table as she slid into the seat opposite him.

He grunted and put the book down to give her his full attention. “You know, it really is too bad you opted out of Divination this year. It’s a laugh,” he told her, truly excited to talk to her. “Trelawney has lost none of her charm.”

“Oh? Who’s next on her list for a horrid afterlife then?” Hermione asked, with no lack of sarcasm. “Let me guess: Neville’s frog.”

As if he’d been splashed in the face with cold water from the nearby loch, Draco’s amusement immediately bled away.

“Why would you say that?” he asked, his voice gone a pitch higher than usual, as Granger hit too close to home for comfort. He cleared it and tried again. “I mean, sometimes the old bat predicts test failures or romantic breakups and such dribble, too.”

Granger finished setting up her study area and turned her full attention on him.

“And did she today? Or was it more death and dire warnings of accidents waiting to happen?”

He grinned.

Well, she certainly knew how to slay a dragon with that sharp tongue of hers, didn’t she?

“The latter,” he admitted. “Your friend, Lovegood, was predicted to fall from a great height soon.”

Hermione snorted with amusement.

“Of course she was.”

“You haven’t heard the best part,” he confided and leaned in, as if telling a secret. Granger met him half way, until there were only a few inches separating them. “Lovegood fired back that she’d already tripped and fell this morning. Then she asked Trelawney if the woman was in the right teaching field and suggested she swap with Binns because she sounds more like she was reciting _History_.”

Granger let out a loud, whooping laugh. “Ooh, I wish I’d been there to see that,” she admitted while wiping the tears of hilarity from her eyes. “I almost regret not taking that class now.”

“Don’t worry, Granger,” Draco said, picking up his quill and giving it a twirl, “as long as you keep showing up here, I’ll keep you apprised of the madness going on in this school. It’s what _I’m_ best at, after all.”

**o.O.o**

Weeks passed in a similar pattern and Draco’s plan was working perfectly.

Every day he took his seat beside Granger in their shared classes, and practically every night he spent in the library studying across from her. They shared ideas, debated concepts, and once or twice, even compared notes…that, despite his ‘chicken scratch’.

One could say they were fast becoming friends, even.

On the weekends, he also spent a few hours each day with Madam Pomfrey, too, learning the healing arts in an effort to impress Granger, and surprisingly finding an aptitude for it. The school’s nurse even encouraged him to consider it as a career possibility, citing he might one day be good enough to ‘save lives’.

Ironic, really, given he could literally dole out Necromancy with a touch of his hands.

Throughout it all, whether in the Library, in his common room, in the Hospital wing, or sitting next to Granger in class and ‘accidentally’ bumping into her, he was keenly aware that his gloves did not come off. They were a permanent accessory except when showering. Because no matter how much light and goodness surrounding him now, he was still a captive to dark magic.

And if he ever forgot that lesson, he simply stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest and listened for the familiar cry of one revenant frog.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

**October, 1998**

Draco’s dreams had been bothering him ever since he’d decided to take up with Granger.

Specifically, they were filled with weird images of a thick crimson liquid that tasted like blood.

In the first dream, Voldemort compelled him with magical might to his knees and attempted to shove the red stuff down his throat.

In another, Dumbledore held out his hand and simply offered it to him in a clear, unmarked vial with a beguiling smile.

These dreams were quick and incomplete, though, and he always woke before his dream-self consumed anything.

The most recent vision, however, had been more detailed and had disturbed him the most. It had starred Granger in a potions lab, tossing some sort of a large, red stone into a bubbling cauldron and stirring it clockwise three times until the liquid turned that same dark red colour. She’d then used a ladle to scoop out a bit of the potion and poured it into a small pink phial she kept in her pocket.

 _“It’s for you, Draco,”_ she told him, _“but only if you earn it.”_

He awoke that morning sweaty and hard.

By the afternoon, he was frantically checking through his old Divination text books for the chapter on the symbolism of dreams, recalling they’d discussed it in fifth year. Within its pages, he’d discovered that stirring something referred to putting a decision into action, that turning clockwise meant the future, and that the number three referred to the need to communicate ideas.

All made perfect sense, given his undertakings this year.

The glaring use of red and pink though had two entirely different meanings: either love or anger. Although it made sense that Voldemort and Dumbledore would both offer him a red liquid to drink given their hatred for him, neither love nor hate really seem to fit what he was after with Granger. He didn’t fancy her and he wasn’t angry with her, and he was guessing from their positive interactions of late that the same was true of her in regards to him.

And what exactly did she mean when she’d said he could have the potion but, “only if you earn it”? How could he earn anything when she was apparently _giving_ him what he wanted in the dream? What more was there to earn in that particular dream sequence but her gift of the potion?

None of it made sense, and yet the dream haunted him all day.

That evening, he was back in the library, sharing the usual table with Granger and their talk turned, ironically, to advanced potions.

“It’s funny how Felix Felicis can cause so much collateral damage given its magical luck properties,” she said after discussing how she suspected Potter’s use of it in their sixth year had, through a series of interconnected variables, inadvertently led to the death of some pet giant spider of Hagrid’s. “Then again, that’s true of many potions, isn’t it? There are always unintended consequences that negatively affect others, and all to bring some benefit solely to the drinker.”

Again, being a potions enthusiast, Draco took a bit of offence to that stance.

“That’s an unfair argument,” he countered. “Think of all the good some potions do, too. Skele-Gro, for instance. Without it, half the Quidditch world would be unemployed at any given time. Not only would that affect the sport and its fans, but it would put an undue burden on the healthcare system.”

Granger had to give him that.

“And Wolfsbane potion,” he continued, hitting a subject he knew she personally cared about, given her friend, Brown’s, condition. The girl had returned to Hogwarts, despite the scars Greyback had left on her—which spoke volumes as to why she’d been sorted Gryffindor house from the start. “It allows werewolf victims to stave off the worst of the disease’s effects, including monthly transformations.”

“But,” Granger argued, just to be contrary, “there are potions like Polyjuice, which allow people to run amok as someone else. I was able to impersonate your aunt and infiltrate her vault at Gringotts thanks to it.”

“-Which allowed you to find one of the horcruxes,” he recalled from their discussion weeks earlier as to what she’d been up to over the years when he hadn’t been looking. “Where’s the detriment to that again? I’m not seeing it.”

She frowned. “Alright, perhaps that wasn’t the best example,” she conceded. “How about the Philosopher’s Stone and its Elixir of Life, then? It allows someone to live far beyond their natural lifespan.”

“And that’s a bad thing?” he asked, surprised she’d think it. “Flammel certainly didn’t believe so. He got to witness six centuries of human history pass by, you said, and all it took was downing a shot glass full of liquid.”

Her nose wrinkled in an adorable fashion. “It isn’t actually a one-sip fix. For one, I deduced from Flammel’s letter that you have to keep drinking it on an annual basis for it to work, and according to him, it smells and tastes utterly disgusting…which is saying a lot for a man who enjoyed Casu Marzu.”

They both shuddered.

Well, at least Granger had good taste in cheeses.

“And two?” he dared to ask.

“It actually arrests your cells, so they can’t divide. That comes with a terrible cost in the end.”

“What do you mean?”

Now it was Granger’s turn to set aside her books, having decided this conversation worth a pause of her studies as well.

“You can’t eat or drink anything else, because digestion of anything other than the potion causes cellular divide to continue and chemical processes in the body to reignite. Also, you can’t have children. Your reproductive system shuts down.”

Draco’s jaw hit the floor.

“Are you telling me that a wizard on the Elixir can’t get—?”

“Erect. No, not as long as he’s on the potion. He also doesn’t produce sperm. And women don’t experience menstruation.” She seemed to consider that for a moment. “That’s not really so horrible for the female, actually.”

“No food, alcohol, or sex?” The idea seemed utterly profane to him. “What idiot at the Ministry decided to name a potion with drawbacks like that the ‘Elixir of Life’? Sounds more like the ‘Elixir of Boredom’ to me!”

“Hmm, now that I think on it, maybe it isn’t such a terrible potion,” Granger suddenly backtracked. “Think of all the extra research you could get done if you had even one hundred years longer to live?”

It took a supreme effort of will for Draco not to drop his forehead onto the desk and cry.

Only Granger would think studying for centuries was a dream come true.

“Whatever flips your socks,” he caved, not wanting to turn this conversation contentious by pointing out her weird fetishes. “Still claim you know how to make an Elixir of Life then?”

She cleared her throat, and went pink around the ears with embarrassment. “I said I _believed_ I knew how to make a Philosopher’s Stone, which is the wellspring for the Elixir of Life. Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t allow me to attempt to replicate the stone, however, and Minerva—I mean, Professor McGonagall—she would most likely feel the same. Imagine the damage such a potion could do if its recipe got out…which brings this conversation full circle.”

Draco considered the idea of making and taking such an elixir, of cheating death even for an hour longer…and how Voldemort had attempted the same thing several times and paid a huge price for it. He hadn’t even been fully human at the end. “Well, the quest for immortality sounds like a dud proposition to me anyway,” he said, picking back up his Alchemy textbook. “If you chose the Elixir, it makes your prick go limp and puts you on an extreme diet. If you go the horcrux route, it splits your soul and you eventually go mad. Neither is actually ‘living’. I think I’d rather die than try, thanks.”

Granger went silent, contemplating his words.

“But what if the Elixir could be used towards another end?” she tentatively asked, as if she’d given the matter some thought in the past, but had been too conflicted to decide how she’d felt about it.

“You mean aside from immortality?”

She nodded. “What if it’s the cure for some deadly magical disease, for instance? Like Dragon Pox. Or what if it could undo damage like memory loss or insanity caused by over use of _Crucio_? Wouldn't it be worth it to take it even once if it could make a person completely healthy and free from pain and illness, or if it could reverse some dark curse?”

Longbottom’s parents, that’s who she was talking about, he thought. He’d heard the tale told in excruciating detail by his bragging aunt and the Lestrange brothers the previous Halloween, when they’d parked out at his home to celebrate the holiday by murdering a few Muggles on his front lawn. Could the Elixir be used on something like that, to repair damaged tissue and nerves?

If so, maybe it could be used to cure Longbottom’s frog…and him, for that matter.

“There’s only one way to know,” he told her, prodding her in the direction he needed. This just might be the cure he’d been hoping to find! “Want to give it a try? We could claim it was extra credit for Potions or Herbology.”

**o** **.O.** **o**

To Draco’s surprise, Granger threw herself into researching her presumed ingredient list for the Philosopher’s Stone.

He helped in the effort, of course, comparing her list to his experiences and knowledge, as well as various tomes within the library that discussed potion elements and additives. Cowbane, for instance, he already knew was a paralytic, and Abyssinian Shrivelfig was an extremely hardy plant, but he’d learned in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi: Volume Seven_ that Cowbane could render a person’s limbs permanently disabled if dosed incorrectly and the Shrivelfig could fruit even in the dead of winter and resisted all forms of insect predation. Who knew? Another ingredient on the list, Sopophorous bean juice induced permanent memory loss if drunk alone, according to Granger, but when used with other ingredients, this ability was instead transformed into a side-effect that made the drinker slow and sleepy. Valerian root contained similarly sedative properties, and was also on the list.

All of those were quite common in the majority of potions he’d encountered in his classes, but it was fascinating to find out that such easily obtainable and frequently utilized ingredients all had a darker side to them.

Two more inventory items on Granger’s menu were Powdered Root of Asphodel and Wormwood—more advanced plants with highly poisonous attributes. Both could be found in a Draught of Living Death…as well as a Draught to Induce Euphoria and a Vitamix Potion, albeit in small enough quantities as not to damage one’s organs.

The more he considered Granger’s list, the more he could see how her recipe could come together to create something as powerful as a Philosopher’s Stone, an item that suspended death by essentially putting the body’s natural functions into a slowed or altogether suspended state.

At least, thus far…

The last two ingredients on the list were a complete mystery to Draco, however. What specifically were a Chinese Fireball’s claw and a vial of blood from an Antipodean Opaleye used for in a potion? He’d never encountered either, and no book in the library seemed to address these ingredients in the capacity of a potion’s use, oddly enough.

Here, his experiences came into play, though: he had heard a rumour going around during the year of Umbridge’s reign that students were trading dragon claws to grind up and consume, as they were supposedly brain stimulants. O.W.L. and N.E.W.T.-takers were actively engaged in the illicit trade in them—and Zabini had been ground zero on that scheme.

...

...

...In true crusader style, Granger had been the one to take down his ring of apothecarium exploitation, ironically enough.

If it was true that the keratin in Chinese Fireball dragon’s claws contained some sort of brain enhancement properties then was Granger’s recipe meant to act as the Elixir of Life’s memory analeptic?

It made sense.

He'd have to owl Zabini and hope the guy wasn't too busy playing Quidditch hero to help out...

How the vial of Opaleye plasma fit into it all, however, was confusing, as Draco was no expert on the twelve uses of dragon’s blood, and he knew no one who was, either. Worse, he had absolutely no idea how they were going to acquire either item, given how rare they sounded. Would they have to travel to China and New Zealand and hunt down someone on the blackmarket to trade? How likely was that to happen before the end of second term, really, especially given his Ministry sentence that required him to pass with ‘Outstanding’ in at least five N.E.W.T.s by next June? If he didn’t get a cure before then, Granger might slip through his fingers and be gone…and then he’d have to hunt alone for a means to get rid of his inconvenient ‘dead hands’ problem!

No.

No way.

He wouldn’t have made it even this far into brainstorming for a potential cure without her input, and even if the Philosopher’s Stone turned out to be a dead end, at least it was hope.

He needed her, like it or not, because every little bit of her and her chirpy Gryffindor optimism was vital for keeping him moving right now. If not for that, Draco thought he'd go as mad as Longbottom’s parents...and his bloody frog. 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

Zabini was a wanker.

He didn’t just owl a note back to Draco, he stopped by the castle to meet up with him that same weekend and not just to help his old friend in Slytherin with his dragon claw problem, but also to show off his success to Potter’s girl, the She-Weasel. The guy had never gotten over Little Red, it seemed, even as he flatly denied carrying a fancy for her for years.

Pathetic sod.

“The rags say you're a Quidditch star now,” Draco greeted his old friend with a smirk at the Hogsmeade station’s Floo. “Who'd you blackmail or bribe for that kind of press? You play for shit.”

The truth was his old friend was actually pretty fucking sport at Quidditch. The fact that a National Team—even one as carefree as the Italians—had picked him up at his age spoke volumes. And after the guy's performance at the team's first official game last month, it was clear he'd deserved the spot; they'd got the win thanks to Zabini's Chasing talents.

Still, Draco couldn't help but give him a hard time. If the positions were reversed, Blaise wouldn't show him any mercy, either.

“You’re one to talk about do-overs,” his friend told him, pulling Draco into a manly hug that nearly collapsed one of Draco's lungs. Merlin, what were they feeding the Italian National Team these days—Mountain trolls?!? "Theo says you and Gryffindor's Golden Girl are new besties. What, did you help her free her elves finally?"

He slapped his friend on the back and it was as if the last few years had never happened at all, like they were seven all over again and running through the manor's back gardens to escape their parents' dull and mindless adult conversations, getting into mischief with Greg and Vinnie and Pans by teasing the Venomous Tentacula or the baby Mandrakes.

“Let’s get a drink,” he said and the two headed to the newly renovated Hog’s Head, since Draco still wasn’t welcome at the Three Broomsticks after the whole Imperius incident with Madam Rosmerta.

As they walked down the rain-slicked road together, they caught up on Zabini’s life as a Quidditch star and Draco’s post-trial existence. When they reached the pub, Draco held the door for his friend and went in after him. Old Aberforth Dumbledore had sold the Hog's Head soon after the war had ended, and the new owner, Seamus Finnigan, looked up as they entered. He didn’t greet them with a smile, as he might’ve done with other patrons, but he did nod his head at him, trying for polite.

“I've got first round,” Zabini said, knowing Draco’s relationship with the Irish was a bad one and heading that fight off at the pass by offering to pay for their drinks. “Pick a table.”

Draco took one in the corner, still more comfortable ducking for the shadows.

Minutes later, he and his old friend were sitting together, both nursing pints of a thick, rich Irish stout, and discussing Draco’s reason for reaching out to Zabini in the first place.

“Sorry, mate. I don’t know any of the uses for dragon’s blood,” Zabini admitted. “Dragon claws, however…They're stimulants. They make you focus, energize your brain so problem-solving is heightened.”

“That makes with what I’d thought,” Draco confirmed. “I remember you selling them during fifth year.”

“Made a mint, too…until your witch, Granger, shut it all down.”

“She’s not _my_ witch,” Draco argued as he looked into his dark brown beer and noticed it was the same colour as Granger's eyes. “She’s only helping me solve a problem.”

Zabini was too perceptive, though, to let that lie pass.

“A problem that requires neurocognitive enhancement drugs? Sounds serious.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s for a class project—”

His friend set his mug down on the table harder than usual. “Don’t bullshit me, Malfoy,” he said, losing the jolly-good-time face and tone. “I’m not some first year simpleton.”

Alright, so he couldn’t pull a fast one on Zabini.

Still, how much of his secret was he willing to share with his old friend? 

“You’re not thinking of cheating your way through the N.E.W.T.s?” his friend asked, “because I hear through the grapevine that they’re planning to test students starting this year for any illicit potions before the major tests. Nott’s got his ear to the ground and some mystery connection in the Ministry he won’t divulge, but if there's one thing I know for certain, it's that Theo doesn't lie. He figures the truth is more painful.” He pointed a finger in Draco’s face. “And you just skipped free of Azkaban this summer by an inch, mate. You won’t get a free pass a second time.”

Zabini had him there.

“It’s not for test-taking, and I’m not looking to deal it,” he admitted. “It’s… Like I said, it's for a project. More a side one that Granger and I are working on in our downtime.“

Zabini’s shit-eating grin was back.

“Theo was right then," he said with a wicked chuckle. "And look at you, back to your old Slytherin self, scheming to get ahead." He held his hands up as if marking a headline in _The Daily Prophet_ in big, bold letters. "'Malfoy's Mystery Potion: Dragon Gifts His Parts To Win Granger's Heart.' Very clever. Giving up the rare and expensive to get something equally as priceless. Smart move.”

His secretive smirk said he’d tried it already and succeeded with some bird.

“Har-har. Side-splitting," Draco dead-panned. "It's not like that, though."

"It could be, if Nott's not lying...which I believe we've already covered."

Draco put up his hands in surrender.

“Whatever."

His friend stared at him over the edge of his glass as he downed the last of its contents, his dark gaze uncomfortably perceptive. Draco dropped his attention to his glass once more, fiddling with the condensation running along its sides.

It was an awkward minute later that his friend slammed his hand down on the wood, nearly cracking it with the same heavy palm that was used to catching high-velocity Quaffles. “Right then, I’m helping you get the girl!” he said with finality. “How many dragon claws do you need and which species?”

“Chinese Fireball, two, and I’m not interested in Granger.”

His friend looked at him like he was talking out of both sides of his mouth.

“Riiiiiiiiight.”

Fuck Zabini, the wanker.

**o.O.o**

Zabini stayed in the village to flirt with a certain Gryffindor redhead who had come down with her looney blonde friend to shop, as Draco made his way back to the castle alone.

Granger was waiting for him in the Entrance Hall, pacing back and forth.

"I think I may have a line on the dragon's blood," she said.

"Brilliant," he replied, "as I just acquired us the dragon claws we'll need."

He then walked with her up the Grand Staircase towards the library, intending to get in a few hours of research on the potion before dinner. Along the way, they discussed his meeting with Zabini and his role the guy would play in their dragon claw acquisition. Of course, he left off the part where his friend had spent most of the afternoon razzing him about having feelings for Granger.

Because it was patently ridiculous. There weren’t any feelings to have.

Granger was just...Granger.

Really.

His witch was over the moon with his news, of course. That he’d got a line on the ultra-rare and expensive dragon’s claws was a giant hurdle they’d now cleared. In her excitement, she’d actually thrown her arms around Draco’s neck and hugged him.

“This is fabulous, Draco! We’re one step closer to the Stone!”

Even just placing his hands on Granger’s hips to calm her down felt strangely intimate…so much so he was suddenly sporting a stiffy in his pants.

“Er…sorry,” she said, backing up as she realised she’d crossed a line, obviously having felt his arousal rubbing against her.

“No, it’s—”

What? Wasn't it alright for her to trust him enough to celebrate their victories? Hadn’t that been the whole purpose of “Operation: Granger Changer”? He’d wanted to win her over so she’d care enough to help him find a cure for his condition, right? Well, mission accomplished. So why was he suddenly unsure…so _uneasy_ where she was concerned? It couldn’t possibly be because he was starting to develop a conscience regarding his plan. Because that would be stupidly un-Slytherin, more Hufflpuff fluff.

...

...

...But, Merlin's balls if he didn't feel an odd stab of guilt as he stared at her downturned features.

He’d done that to her, hadn’t he? He’d turned her exuberance into disappointment. He’d made her withdraw. Where once, years earlier, he’d have high-fived that kind of mean-spirited move and seen it as a plus-one achievement to his tally, now it just felt wrong.

Oh, hell. Zabini had nailed it, hadn’t he? Draco actually _liked_ Hermione Granger.

Wanted her, too, if his prick was to be believed.

Fuck.

He had to play this cool, brush it off, get back some perspective. “It’s fine,” he said, letting her go and stepping back. “I just don’t want Potter or Weasley getting the wrong idea, in case there are rumours. We have been spending a lot of time together this term.”

Her defeat instantly transformed into anger.

“And how is our friendship any of their business?”

He cautiously stepped back, not wanting to get singed by the sudden rage breathing like fire from her mouth.

“I…I just thought—”

She took a step forward to match his intention to put distance between them and poked him in the chest. “Listen here, Malfoy: no one tells me what to do,” she informed him, succinctly. “No one tells me who to befriend or how I show them my feelings, and I won’t be bullied into conforming to someone else’s ideas for me. I think of you as my friend, and that’s that. Are we clear?”

“Uh, sure. Alright, Granger. Friends.”

“Good,” she said with a nod to seal the deal. “Then let’s get to the library and back to work. There’s still the instructions for brewing the Stone that we’re going to have to work out from Flammel’s letters. That’s going to take weeks to puzzle out.”

She stomped off towards the library, satchel slung over her shoulder and carrying the weight of the world inside it, most likely.

Draco watched her walk away, fascinated with her taking-no-shite attitude and how she never let anything get her down for long. In that way, she seemed a lot like Zabini.

Maybe she was the perfect friend for him, after all.

**o.O.o**

“Er, Granger?”

“Yes, Malfoy?”

“What did the Philosopher’s Stone look like?”

He glanced over at her from the top of the book he’d been reading on different techniques for brewing Shrivelfig with various other ingredients.

“Potter described it to you, right?”

She shrugged.

“He did. It’s red and about the size of a grown man's palm. Why?”

Well, that definitely described the stone she’d been holding in her hand in his dream.

It also perfectly described a human heart.

Had it been a metaphor for _her_ heart?

“Just curious.”

"Mmm, okay."

They spent the next several hours in silence. Granger was absorbed in their Transfiguration homework, but Draco…his mind was lost in the memory of a dream.

_“It’s for you, Draco, but only if you earn it.”_


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

Two weeks later, two events happened in succession to turn everything on its head.

The first occurred in the Great Hall on a Thursday morning. 

Draco was sitting with Granger at the Slytherin table to go over a homework assignment they done in tandem for Charms class when the She-Weasel marched across the room towards them, red-faced but seemingly determined to deliver the brown-wrapped parcel in her hands to its rightful recipients.

"Blaise sends his regards," she said in a cagey manner as she shoved the package into her friend's hands and then turned and walked off without another word.

Granger stared at the gift first with confusion, and then the connection clicked in her head and she glanced over at her friend with the kind of shocked silence that said she'd just been scandalized.

Well, well. That motherfucker had done it. Zabini had finally gotten into the She-Weasel's knickers, after all these years of pining away for her in secret. No doubt, the guy had checked off that box by pretending to be the knight-to-the-rescue in Granger's quest for the dragon claws...conveniently omitting that they would also be for Draco's benefit, too.

Slick. 

Potter was probably having fits. Draco couldn't help but snicker at the thought.

Next to him, Granger elbowed him.

"Don't you even say it," she warned him. "Besides, Gin and Harry have been over since the end of summer. It's...moving on, not cheating."

He gave her a questioning look.

She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself of something there...

"Aren't you going to open it?" he asked, deflecting from any criticisms he might have that could land him in trouble. "I don't know about you, love, but I'm excited when I get a mystery present from a tall, dark stranger."

Her laugh caught him off guard.

"You Slytherins are so charming when you want to be," she said and unwrapped the present, keeping it turned so that only she and Draco could see it. Inside, wrapped carefully for the bumpy ride that was owl transport, were two claws from a Chinese Fireball. "And apparently you're extremely resourceful, too."

Draco wagged his eyebrows at her.

"In more ways than one," he flirted.

She started, and her cheeks bloomed like a Victorian rose.

He bet her blush went all the way to her toes this time.

...

...

...But she didn't tell him to stop.

**o.O.o**

The second incident occurred later that same evening in the library, but it wasn't at all as encouraging as their earlier interaction.

Draco was in the middle of swapping out the ink in his empty bottle when something Granger said stopped him short.

“Is that Faber-Castell ink in _green?”_

She was staring at his ink bottle as if it was the world’s most expensive chocolate and she a sweet-addict debating the merits of going on a bender.

Well, well. First glasses, now stationary products… It seemed his little witch had more than one fetish!

“Viper green, to be precise,” he replied with a serpent’s guile. “Limited edition, only fifty bottles ever made. My family bought them all up years ago. It’s all I’ve ever used. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice, actually.”

“I didn’t know they made it in that particular shade.”

Eyes locked on the bottle before him, she licked her plump bottom lip as if hungry to possess the ink. The unconscious act drew his attention to it and Draco’s heart beat a little faster as he watched her moist mouth part. Lust stirred to life within him once more.

Since the afternoon he'd had that uncomfortable revelation about liking Granger not just as a person, but as a _girl_ (thanks to that wanker, Zabini, planting the idea in his head), Draco had been having very non-platonic thoughts about his study partner. His dreams had even taken up the call over the last week, becoming progressively more erotic and wicked. The smallest thing she did now seemed to set him off. Licking her lips, the way her throat moved as she swallowed tea, even bending to pull up a sock that had slouched all gave him a rock-hard erection. It was like he was fourteen all over again and seeing her in that pretty blue dress at the Yule Ball, only now he no longer subscribed to pure-blood lies about Muggle-borns so there was nothing holding him back from exploring those raw, powerful feelings.

His body was definitely on-board, like it or not. He was taking his arousal in hand so many times a day now it was beginning to chafe. 

How could things have turned around on him so suddenly?

“It’s a lovely colour on that parchment,” she indicated the ink again and sighed with wistful longing, her doe-brown eyes gone liquid with want. “Expensive, I assume?”

“N-naturally.”

Her cheeks flooded with colour. It took everything in him not to groan and reach down for an adjustment just then.

“Is it scented?” she asked, her curiosity clearly inspired. “I’ve heard each line they produce has its own unique fragrance.”

He couldn't seem to stop the, "Here, give it a whirl," offer that popped out of his mouth or that his gloved hand moved on its own to lift the bottle from the desk and uncork it for her pleasure. He couldn't prevent his fingers from trembling as she leaned forward and sniffed with a delicate and adorable wrinkle of her nose.

“Mmm, grass and—"

She froze and her expression changed in an instant, shifting from reveling in the indulgent to abject terror in about the same amount time as it took for him to think up a good lie. She leaned away from the bottle now as if it was a snake about to strike.

"Oh, my god, is that spearmint?”

Her gaze dropped to the roll of parchment he’d laid upon the desk earlier to take notes.

“Freshly mown grass and new parchment and _spearmint_ ,” she said, sounding panicked. “That’s simply not… No, it _can’t_ be possible!”

"What can't be?" Draco asked, thoroughly confused by his witch's bizarre behaviour.

Without answering him, Granger quickly gathered her things, mumbling something about Slughorn and his foolish assignments and sniffing potions that she oughtn’t have. Truthfully, she sounded a tad looney, and Draco wondered if maintaining such a close friendship with a certain blonde Ravenclaw of the _Quibbler_ variety wasn’t affecting her brain.

As soon as she had everything off her desk, his little Gryffindor rushed away.

“Granger, wait!”

Alarmed and confused, Draco chased her to the end of the row, and then watched with a touch of dismay as she ran for the exit as fast as a Zouwu on a tear. The door to the library slamming shut behind her startled the knickers off Madam Pince and set student tongues to wagging.

...

...

...What had he done wrong?

**o.O.o**

Granger avoided him after that bizarre event, refusing to sit next to him in class or meet up with him in the library. She ignored the notes he passed to her, and did her utmost to always be in the presence of someone else to avoid him catching her out alone.

How could ink have possibly upset her _that_ much?

It took him three days and nights to parse out her cryptic commentary from her flight and to put it to a memory from sixth year, particularly a lesson involving Amortentia…

_“…it’s supposed to smell differently to each of us, according to what attracts us, and I can smell freshly mown grass and new parchment and—“_

“So spearmint was the final scent of your Amortentia in Sluggy’s class, was it?” he asked Granger, crossing the Great Hall to take a seat at Gryffindor’s table across from her on the morning of the fourth day. “You don’t honestly think that had anything to do with me, did you?”

Her gaze could have cut glass, so sharp and hard was it.

Like any of this was his fault?!

“You hated me back then and barely tolerate me now,” he reminded her. “It’s simply a case of mistaken association. I’ll bet the Weasel uses some sort of minty toothpaste, doesn’t he…most likely to cover up that foul breath of his.”

He'd read the newspaper reports from the summer pegging the two of them in a relationship, and then by July or August how the grand romance had come to an abrupt end. At the time, he hadn't given them much thought, but now he exploited the idea to sell her a tale that could set her at ease.

It seemed to work, too, as she paused to consider his question. 

“You mentioned the smell of grass, too, right? Hell, Longbottom smells like a whole bloody garden on a daily basis, daisies and all. So does Professor Sprout, for that matter. Anyone passing through the greenhouses or walking out to the pitch will as well.” He waved off her assumptions there. “Inconclusive. Not enough for you to make a judgment either way.”

“And the parchment?” she asked, seeming a bit deflated by his analysis.

He gave her his best direct look.

“You practically live in the library. Did you really expect any new roll of parchment not to get your knickers wet?”

She kicked him under the table. “Don’t be crude,” she admonished with a sour frown and a stubborn tilt to her chin.

“Relax. They’re just smells, Granger, and given this place is packed full of horny teenagers and thus filled with them—some more disgusting than others, I might add—it’s only natural you’d find some combinations less repulsive than others. It’s also statistically likely that a certain number of those scents might actually crop up from time to time among the people closest to you.”

She arched an eyebrow at him.

“Not to say we’re roped 'together forever'-level of closeness,” he backpedaled, “but, even so, ‘One coincidence does not a star-crossed love make.’”

“Did you just quote the forward from Tycho Dodonus’ _Predictions_?”

He smirked and reached for a raisin scone in the middle of the table, his hunger overriding his concerns about eating in the lion’s den. 

“See, Divination isn’t all crap.”

“Yes, it is,” she argued and reached for a scone as well.

Misunderstanding cleared up, he thought with some satisfaction...even if, for him, it was the world’s biggest lie.


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

**November, 1998**

That next weekend, much to everyone's surprise (including Draco's), Granger had decided they were a couple.

It just…happened, and hit him out of the blue like a Bludger to the head. Between one day and the next, Draco went from platonic friend to a girl he was secretly pining over to that same witch tentatively slipping her hand into his gloved one as they walked down a busy corridor side-by-side and declaring them an item to the whole school in the doing.

"Didn't we talk about this?" he asked her as they caught a moving staircase together. "Just last week, you seemed adamantly against an Amortentia potion telling you that you had feelings for me."

"Didn't we talk about _that?_ " she asked him. "No one—especially not a potion—is going to tell me what to do or how to feel. This—" She held up their clasped hands. "—is my choice. There's a big difference."

"Ooookay."

"Also, I deduced you were just trying to make me feel better last week, anyway."

"Was I?"

"Yes, you were," she said very assuredly, "because I've known you liked me for a while, but there you were trying to convince me not to, because you thought it was what I wanted to hear."

"I see."

"That was when I knew you really had changed, Draco. I mean, I'd _noticed_ , of course. I even mentioned it that first night in the library, but then when you tried to do something self-sacrificing to make me happy—"

"I'm not sure I would categorize it that way—"

"—I knew I needed to give this a real chance."

They headed down the fourth floor corridor towards the Library, and the crowds thinned out.

"I'm no saint, Granger," he finally said as they turned a corner.

"I know," she said with a shrug. "Neither am I."

He considered that.

"You're closer to being one than I am."

"Maybe you just need the proper motivation."

"And that is...?"

She threw him a naughty look.

He got hard instantly.

"I suppose you're right," he agreed, feeling his face heat.

He reached for the Library door handle and opened it to let her go through first.

"I always am," she whispered in his ear before gliding ahead of him and leading him on towards their favourite private space in the whole school.

**o.O.o**

On Saturday, Granger invited him to Hogsmeade for a Butterbeer or three at the Hog’s Head.

Clearly, his witch also knew Draco wasn’t welcome at Madam Rosmerta’s pub, and so had considerately moved her outing elsewhere to accommodate his inclusion.

He’d accepted, of course, and had even offered her a gloved hand-up into the Thestral-drawn Clarence that they’d shared with the She-Weasel, the Brown girl, and the Lovegood witch, who were accompanying them today.

Once the door was closed, the horses knew the route and took over without direction. Draco spent the entire trip to the village packed in next to his study partner-slash-friend-slash-maybe girlfriend, trying with difficulty to put her light, floral perfume out of his mind and ignoring the fact that she was practically squeezed onto his lap, thanks to Lovegood joining them on their side of the carriage. It was nearly an impossible task, though, as with each jostling movement of the carriage, he was consciously aware of just how well he and his study partner actually fit together…and of how he hadn’t been this close to a soft, warm girl in a while.

“Oi, Malfoy, can I ask you something?” little Weasley asked, which served as a great distraction from where his thoughts had been headed.

“If you want.”

The, _‘I may not answer’_ went unspoken, but as he was Slytherin, it was always implied.

Apparently, the witch took that as permission to bully ahead.

“What’s with the gloves you’re always wearing?”

Granger sucked in a harsh breath at that, as if even she knew that the subject might be a bit too personal to ask at this stage of the game. She’d certainly avoided the topic thus far, although more than once since the start of term he’d caught her staring at his hands with the unasked question in her eyes.

It was actually a perfect opening, however, and a better one Draco couldn’t have arranged, honestly. With the She-Weasel doing the asking, he could be obliged to talk about the awkward topic and it wouldn’t seem as if he’d manoeuvered the conversation in that direction.

“A punishment from the Dark Lord.”

Technically true. It was a curse, after all.

Against him, he felt Granger stop breathing, as if she was waiting for more.

“They’re ruined,” he said with a self-deprecating smirk. Again, not a fib, but it was up to personal interpretation what he meant by that word. “So, I wear the gloves.”

Next to the She-Weasel, Lavender Brown harrumphed and reached up to stroke the slashes on her cheek and throat that, rumour whispered, Greyback had inflicted upon her during the Final Battle. If true, they would take years to fully heal and leave her with decidedly wolfish tendencies. “Not everyone’s able to hide their wounds,” she said. Her voice was growly and whisky-rough, which would indicate her vocal chords had been damaged in the attack, too, or so Draco surmised. “You’re luckier than most, Malfoy.”

“I’m not sure any of us can claim that, Lavender,” Granger chimed in, sticking up for him. “The war hurt us all in different ways, some more overt than others.”

Brown merely huffed in agreement at that, but kept the rest of her opinions to herself for the duration of the ride.

“Sorry,” Weasley said to Draco. “Didn’t mean to make it rain by prodding scars.”

“Oh, that’s just a silly superstition,” Luna piped up, much to everyone’s surprise. “You can’t actually make it rain by talking about sad things.”

Draco was shocked. He’d always thought the Looney girl never spoke a word of sense, but for once—

“We could always summon a Thunderbird, though, if you really _want_ a storm.”

Granger and the She-Weasel laughed, and even Brown smirked.

Draco bit his tongue and wisely said nothing. Mentally, though, he did take back his almost-re-evaluation of Luna Lovegood.

**o.O.o**

“You’ve been staring all afternoon,” Draco pointed out later when he and Granger lingered behind in the village to shop a little longer as her three friends headed back to the castle.

Currently, they were at Scrivenshaft’s to pick up some parchment and some new quills, and he finally decided to address the Lethifold in the room that was his gloved hands. It was a good chance to segue them into telling her the whole story, now that things had progressed between them.

“You’re curious about the curse upon my hands, aren’t you?”

His witch's cheeks were scarlet with mortification.

“I…I’m sorry, Draco, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s alright, Granger. I expected we’d get here. The gloves _are_ rather conspicuous.”

“You don’t have to tell me a thing, if you don’t want to,” she offered him the compassionate out. “I don’t want to bring up bad memories.”

He stared down at her where she stood at his side and on a bizarre impulse, wrapped and arm around her and tucked her in against his heart. She folded into him without any hesitation and fit perfectly. 

“We’ll need privacy for that discussion,” he explained in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard.

Her head bobbed against his chest.

“Okay.”

They completed their purchases and hopped back into an empty carriage for the ride back to the school. As a precaution, Draco drew the inside curtains over the windows as Granger lit her wand for light. The carriage was suddenly a whole lot warmer and cosier as he sat back in his seat and stared across the small space at his…girlfriend, he supposed. At least, that's what it seemed she wanted with him.

She sat on the edge of her bench, pink around the edges and nervous as a filly.

He was, too, now that it had come down to the explanations.

“From piecing together the events of that night from various sources, it happened right after the Dark Lord killed Snape," he said, setting the scene for her. "He'd killed my godfather because he'd thought Severus was the owner of the Elder Wand and he wanted it for himself. Then, he'd just moved on as if it had been nothing important, like swatting a fly. He'd gone to the forest to regroup, summoned the rest of us to him. I was standing in the castle one minute, and then the next, I was forcibly Apparated to his side. My father was there.”

He had to stop, to take a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. Just thinking of those days always led him here, to a place of cold dread and shaking limbs, to the guilt and the wish to take it all back. To her credit, Granger didn't move to comfort him. She sat perfectly still in her seat across from him and let him talk and leech the evil from his soul one story at a time.

"He took us aside, my father and I, and that's when it happened."

He'd taken his gloves off and held them up now. As he'd expected, Granger's jaw clenched, her eyes went wide...but to his surprise, the emotion in them was not fear or pity. It was tender affection and concern and a silent desire to fix the pain she witnessed in the grey, sagging skin and the bony rheumatoid fingers.

It was enough to make him look away, to remind him of the ugliness he always brought to her life. And here he was, doing it again.

Selfish boy, others had always accused him.

They weren't wrong.

"What happened?" she whispered, wanting the rest of his tale.

With a deep breath, he gave it to her. "Voldemort grabbed me by the hands, he chanted something I couldn't hear, and there was a blinding flash of light and then pain. When I could see again, the bastard had collapsed into my father's arms, weakened for a moment by whatever he'd transferred into me. I felt the same, but I'd locked my knees to keep standing. I almost fainted, honestly, I was so dizzy. When the weakness passed for both of us, the Dark Lord told me what he expected of me."

He repeated his Master's last order to him, as well as the threat if he failed him again.

"I didn't know what he'd meant then. Now...I know."

Ashamed, Draco could only stare at his wasted hands, frustrated by his inability to save them. A body wasn't supposed to fail you, not until you were much older and had used it up. Yet here he was at eighteen, and his hands looked a hundred years older, weathered by the dark magic flowing through them.

"After the Final Battle, nothing was different about me. Whatever he'd done to my hands, the power was delayed. It wasn't until the end of July that I had my first...episode. I found my eagle owl's dead body just inside our fence line in the front garden area," he told her. "Someone outside the wards must have been intent to get in, to hurt us, and when they couldn't... They'd kill him returning home. I found him and picked him up, thinking I'd bury him. One touch and he came back to life, Granger—as a revenant."

Her gasp was loud in the enclosed space, and he knew he'd horrified her enough.

Quickly, he re-sheathed his hands in his gloves to at least prevent her from having to be victimized by the sight of them.

"The same thing happened to one of our Abraxans when it finally passed of old age," he continued as he wiggled his atrophied hands into the soft dragon-hide leather. "Then with Longbottom's frog, here on the castle grounds. They were all reborn as monsters. And I did that, just by touching them. I made them into demons!" He stared at his safely encased hands and for the first time, instead of fear, he felt a fiery wave of hate and resentment take hold of him until he was clenching them so tightly that the nerves all up and down his arms and wrists screamed in agony. "That's why I can't go near anyone else without these on. What if I touched someone living? What would it do to them? I can't risk it...not until I've found a cure."

Silence fell between them them, heavy with unspoken questions. It lasted for another turn of the carriage, the thestral guiding it sensing its passengers need to keep moving.

“You told Ginny your hands were damaged," Granger pointed out, breaking the stalemate, "not cursed.”

“I said they were ‘ruined’,” he corrected her, daring to raise his eyes to hers once more. What was she still doing here? Any 'normal' witch would be running for the hills by now, not wanting the trouble he'd just laid at her feet. "A curse is a type of ruination.”

“Semantics.”

“Purposeful misdirection. I don't want this getting out.”

She narrowed her eyes at the implied aspersion of her friend's character, but didn't dispute it, knowing a secret was only as safe as the number of people who knew it. Instead, her focus shifted to his hands again.

“Did he curse you because he wanted to punish you one more time,” she asked, “or because he wanted to use you as an ace up his sleeve in case things went sideways for him?”

“Both.”

“So, you can’t touch anything without the gloves on because the dead come back to life as revenants and the living...you're not sure what the consequence will be,” she reiterated. “That's why you've been so interested in theoretical Alchemy this year, isn't it? Because Necromancy began as a branch of Alchemy and eventually broke off.”

"Yes."

“You were reading up on Chrysopoeia that first night we argued in the Library at the start of term,” she recalled. “Are you hoping to transmute the spell on your hands so that instead of Necromancy, it casts a form of Aurification—literally giving you a 'Midas Touch' instead?”

Draco hadn't at all anticipated their conversation going in this direction, but... Granger's solution _would_ be a clever fix, he thought, as it would solve two of big problems for him: he'd get rid of the death curse _and_ he wouldn't ever have to worry about the Ministry raiding his vaults again for their 'war reparations'.

“No,” he told her, finding a touch of his dark humour returning. “Good idea, though. I'll keep it on the list of alternatives to an actual cure.”

“Not transmutation then. Hmm..." She tapped her wand against her bottom lip in thought. "What about transfiguration? You could turn your corpses into giant fuzzy animals with big, bushy tails instead of the walking dead.”

 _“What?_ " Was she taking the mickey? "No. That's silly."

“Emolation," she suggested instead. "You could burn them up so no one would ever be able to resurrect them."

He sighed. 

"Your Muggle ancestors were part of the Spanish Inquisition, weren't they?"

"Oh, I know!" she said enthusiastically. "How about trituration? Turn them into giant piles of salt!"

He opened his mouth to reply, but then paused, recognising the potential for a positive economic impact there...

"Well, I suppose that would be a cheap way to grit the paths around here in winter."

"There's always denaturation," she stated. "You could cause them to simply fall apart on a cellular level."

"I'm going to stop you there. Were you always this nasty, Granger?"

She laughed, and much as he tried to keep a straight face, he couldn't at her outrageous antics. Apparently, she'd learned humour was a coping mechanism. 

"How do you do that?" he asked, leaning across the aisle and pulling her from her seat to sprawl her over his lap. “Always turn a bad situation on its head?"

Wrapping her arms around his neck, she leaned in until their noses brushed.

Draco's breath caught.

"We're friends, yes?" she asked him in a hushed whisper.

"Good friends," he agreed. “But we could be more...if you want."

She lost her mirth and glanced at him through her thick, dark lashes in a way that reminded him of how she’d once looked at the limited edition ink he owned—like she desired it more than air.

“I want," she admitted.

He was instantly hard again.

"You're sure?"

"Quite."

And just like when she'd taken his hand and declared it hers, now too did she do the same with his heart.

Their mouths met and there was definitely magic in the air.

Fortunately, this was a kind that reaffirmed life and which kept death at bay naturally.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

"So, you and Granger. Was it a love or lust potion that made all your dreams finally come true there?"

Draco turned his attention away from another of Trelawney's infamous predictions of woe, this time directed at Daphne Greengrass, and towards his table partner, Theodore Nott. The guy had a fist under his chin, his elbow on the table, and he was leering at Draco as if he couldn't wait for all of the juicy details because he planned to wank to them later.

"Fuck off," Draco replied with an amused smirk. "You're just jealous she likes my hair better."

"Sadly, that doesn't speak to her sense of taste," his friend joked in a whisper. "You have a terrible stylist."

The two had been friends longer than Draco and Zabini, having been playmates since nappies, and although they'd also drifted apart during Draco's Dark Mark days of sixth and seventh, the summer had seen Theo coming over to check on him a few times and the relationship falling back into a familiar rhythm. The camaraderie was familiar and stabilizing, a necessary fixture in post-war Draco's mental recovery. 

But it was also a bit strained. 

Since a very young age, it had been apparent that Theo had admired Draco, and had desperately wanted his approval. When they'd hit Hogwarts at the same time, though, something had tilted and slipped. Draco had learned to dominate their Slytherin classmates within a very short period of time and Theo, who had been more carefree then, hadn't been comfortable playing the role of one of his cronies. That had put some distance between them. Then, Theo had come out at fourteen, and Draco hadn't been very supportive. In fact, he'd pretty much ignored his friend's struggles with accepting his homosexuality in a world that pushed a heterosexual narrative as much as possible, his own interests in thwarting Potter and his band of merry miscreants all-consuming.

Sixth year had been the decisive blow to their friendship, however. To fulfill Voldemort's orders, Draco had lied to everyone and he'd pushed his friends away—some of them, like Pansy and Vinnie and Greg, to an irreparable distance. Theo had taken the rejection hard, too. He'd seen it as a cut-direct, assigning it as a snub against his attraction to men instead of viewing it as Draco's way of keeping everyone else safe from the Dark Lord's notice, and the guy had pushed back against Draco in the same way. Their friendship had fractured and nearly broken one afternoon that spring, when Theo and he had gotten into a fistfight about it.

That had been one of the darkest days of his life, Draco recalled, culminating later that afternoon in the duel he and Potter had in the bathroom that had led to his almost-death...

Then in seventh year, when it had become clear Draco had been Marked and served the Dark Lord, Theo had avoided Draco like the plague, refusing to openly join the cause, despite his father's pressure. They hadn't spoken a single word to each other all that year.

It hadn't been until his trial after the end that his friend had finally understood Draco's real reasons for the forced separation, and the forgiveness had begun.

There were still secrets, though, like Draco's curse. Being an unwilling Necromancer puppet to a dead Dark Lord might just be enough to scare his old friend off for good. For that reason, Draco thought it better to play things close to his chest for now, to ease them back into the friendship, as Theo seemed to be doing.

"Zabini says you're up to no good again."

Well, there went that idea.

"Oh?" Draco replied, pretending ignorance. "Am I?"

Theo's leonine gaze may have seemed lazy and disinterested, but behind the façade there was an exceptional and sharp mind, and Theo didn't like being trifled with when the matter was serious. 

"You are," his friend asserted. "I know your furtive ferret face when I see it."

He glanced sideways at the guy. "You're up to no good, too," he pointed out. "I know your 'I'm on the hunt' face when _I_ see it."

Theo's smile was slow and wicked, but he didn't deny it.

Trelawney interrupted them to have them open their books to the chapter on Lithomancy and to use the bowl of gem stones she'd placed on every table to discern what each stone meant in preparation for using them to divine the future of the person sitting across from them. 

As Theo separated out the bowl, Draco read off what each stone represented.

"What's this one?" his friend asked, holding up a jade green stone. "I like the way it feels."

Draco ran down the list, turning pages until he found the image of the correct stone. "Malachite, I think. Facilitates insight and releases suppressed emotions."

Theo laughed at that. "Appropriate." 

He held up a rose pink stone that reminded Draco of Hermione's cheeks when she blushed. It would make a pretty bottle for perfume if it were carved right...

"And this?"

"Toumaline, pink. Activates the heart chakra. Love and happiness."

His friend smirked at him.

"Your pupils dilated when you first looked at it, you know. Were you thinking of Granger, perhaps?"

He scowled at Nott's antics. The guy was definitely trying to weasel information out of him about his relationship status with Hermione.

As Theo held up the next stone, he asked, "Why are you being so coy when it comes to your Gryffindor goddess, Draco? It's not like everyone hasn't always known you fancied her. Why do you think Pansy left for Germany after your trial, when she found out Granger was coming back for an eighth year, too?"

Draco set his book down, deciding that since Nott wanted this confrontation, he'd give it to him.

He did wave his wand for some privacy, however, putting up a Muffling Charm around them.

"I haven't always fancied her," he said. "This is a new thing."

Theo scoffed. "First year, you kept cutting her off in class."

He shrugged at his friend's weak evidence for his case.

"Yeah, well, she was an annoying swot then, wasn't she?"

His friend wouldn't let it lie at that, however. "Second year, you kept writing home to complain about her to your parents."

"Because there was blatant favouritism for her by most of the staff, especially that gimp, Lockhart," Draco replied. "Someone in authority needed to know."

"Third year, you intentionally antagonised her into fights."

"She kept popping up at inconvenient times. It was...irritating."

"Fourth year, you blatantly envied Krum."

"I did not."

Theo snickered at Draco's lack of an explanation there.

"Fifth year, you tried to catch her out alone by joining Umbridge's goon brigade."

"She was seditious!"

"Sixth year—"

"—I was trying to kill Dumbledore, and nearly killed her friends in the doing. Seventh year, I watched her tortured on the floor of my house and did nothing." There, he'd made his point. "Taken all together, clearly, I couldn't have liked Granger. No one does those things to the person they fancy."

Theo shook his head at Draco's stubbornness. "You'd be surprised how hurtful a person can be to those he claims to care for. And you have always liked her, Draco," his friend said with some sadness. "That's why I've always hated her."

It took a moment for what Nott was saying to sink in.

...

...

...The truth slapped Draco upside the head and left him reeling.

"I didn't realise," he said, feeling a bit deflated that it had taken him this long to see and acknowledge the truth of his friend's feelings for him. Why hadn't he seen it? "I'm sorry."

Nott shrugged it off.

"Water under the bridge, mate. I'm seeing someone now, anyway."

"Yeah?"

His friend looked positively wolfish as he contemplated his current partner.

"Your witch is going to flip her wand when she finds out, too."

Draco's heart stopped. "You're not seeing the Weasel King, are you?"

Theo made a face. "No."

The relief was palpable. The gossip rags had stated Granger and the ginger idiot had been involved this past summer, and even though it was clear that she was over that—very much so—the thought of Nott and Weasley together was enough to turn any rational person's stomach.

"I'm fucking Potter."

Draco's jaw hit the floor at the same time as the textbook that had slipped from his hands.

"Oh, and I know all about Blaise and his little redheaded obsession," Theo continued, humming that he'd gotten the reaction and apology he'd wanted by cleverly manoeuvering this entire conversation from the start, "so I guess that makes three snakes with a weakness for lions. Now all we need to do is convince Parkinson to come home and she and the Weasel King can finally have a go at their unresolved sexual tension, too." He chuckled at his own ingenuity there. "And they say Slytherins are against inter-house unity."

Getting the reaction he'd expected by dropping all that at once into Draco's lap, Theo hummed in happiness and reached for the next stone in the bowl. "I think this is Agate, the 'courage and confidence' stone." He set it back in the bowl. "Well...why don't you tap into it now, Draco, and tell me why you need Blaise to illegally smuggle you dragon claws, which are Class B Non-Tradeable Goods. Because Harry and I would really like to know."

**o.O.o**

**Hours later...**

"You're making a Philosopher's Stone so you can get a sample of the Elixir of Life?"

Potter was as floored by Draco and Hermione's news as Theo had been. He was practically tearing his crazy, messy hair out. "Why?" he demanded. "You remember the kind of evil that's attracted to those things, Hermione. What possible good could come out of remaking one?"

To her credit, Granger tried for reasonable.

"Harry, if you would just calm down and let me explain—"

"Calm down? CALM DOWN?!" The Boy-Who-Lived seemed on the verge of having a heart attack. "Since when has anyone who's ever been told to 'calm down' actually ever done that in the history of wizarding-kind?" 

"Today could be a first," Theo proposed.

Potter wasn't having any of his wizard's flirty shite right then, though. "And you!" He pointed at Theo. "Didn't we discuss this? You were supposed to be sneaky, cunning...Slytherin-like, not barrel into the situation like a Ravenclaw demanding an answer!"

"Or a Gryffindor with a hunch?" Nott suggested instead. "Because that's a more apt comparison, don't you think? And in my defence, all I can say is you've been rubbing off on me, stud muffin, so you can blame yourself for not training me right."

Draco wanted to bury his head in the sand and pretend today had never happened.

"Harry, we don't have any intention of selling the Stone on the black market," Granger told him, exasperated by her friend's overreacting. "It was initially just idle curiosity for both of us." She pointed to herself and Draco. In his head, Draco debated her contention, since it hadn't been idle _anything_ so much as blind desperation driving him, but he didn't dare interrupt her castigating Potter or risk losing vital parts. "Now though, I think it might be an opportunity."

A vein throbbed at Potter's temple. 

"Opportunity?"

The clenched jaw told all to proceed with caution down this rabbit hole. Fortunately, Granger was excellent at prevaricating, so Draco let her take the reins.

"Hypothetically speaking," she said, "what if you knew someone who was cursed with a terrible power that was not their own, Harry? For example, a type of magic that has been forced on them and they can't control it."

"What power?" her friend growled, willing to play along to get to the point. "What kind of magic are we talking about here?"

"Again, hypothetically? The power is to inexplicably bring the dead back to life...with some small side effects."

"You're talking about Necromancy, right?" Theo interjected. "Hypothetically, the blackest magic there is?"

"Yes, that," she confirmed. "With side effects. Hypothetically."

Potter slapped a hand over his face. "I'm going to regret asking this, but what side effects, Hermione?"

"Well," she stalled, "again, I'm not being specific because this is all _hypothetical_ , but...the side effects could include turning the newly reanimated dead into psychotic revenants."

Theo whistled.

Potter stared at her as if she'd just gone 'round the u-bend for a turn. "You...you're saying Malfoy is bringing revenants to life?"

Granger quickly stammered, "I didn't say anything about Draco! "We were speaking hypothetically, Harry! Remember?"

Draco felt his balls crawl up into his body, though, knowing Potter had his number.

His former Gryffindor rival turned to him.

"Malfoy, are you cursed with Necromancy?"

It took two tried for Draco's tongue to start working.

"Er, maybe?"

"Was it Voldemort's doing?"

"Hypothetically," he squeaked with a nervous grin as Granger tucker herself in next to him in a show of unity, "yes."

"Fuck."

"Later," Theo promised his partner with a delighted smile. "We have more important things to tackle right now, my sugar-tart."

Hyperventilating, Potter put his hands on his knees and tried to breathe. "I thought we were done with all of this," he kept repeating over and over.

Distressed to see her best friend fall apart so easily, Hermione conjured a glass and Theo filled it with an _Aguamenti_ Charm. Together, the two tried to keep Harry Potter from exploding all over the dungeon's empty potions lab, where they'd agreed to meet that evening to discuss this issue. Draco awkwardly stood by in the wings, unsure of where he could help, especially given his lack of a relationship with Theo's new boy-toy.

Several long minutes later, Potter pulled himself together. 

"Tell me everything, Malfoy," he demanded. "Leave nothing out."

Seeing as how his secret had been blown wide open anyway, Draco did.

Potter processed it well.

"So you think the Elixir of Life will do...what? Cure him?" he asked Granger.

"That's my working hypothesis," she told him. "Ever since I learned of the curse from Draco, our little extra curricular research project has had me wondering if the solution for his curse isn't right before our eyes. The Elixir is the cure-all for every ailment, or so the rumour states. Why not this, too?"

"But Necromancy isn't a disease," Potter pointed out the obvious. "What makes you think it'll even work in this case?"

"The Elixir of Life is Zoemancy, the opposite of Necromancy," Granger explained. "The one should cancel out the other."

"A net-zero magical exchange. Perfect balance," Theo said, awed by the simplicity of the plan. "Smart, Granger. No wonder my luscious blood pop speaks so highly of you."

Draco gave his exasperating friend an exasperated look. 

"Are you on the verge of starvation, because that's the third time you've referred to Potter as food in this conversation."

Nott's mouth did that dirty smile-thing again. "Why, yes, I'm definitely starving for _something_ from my honey bun before he has to sneak off back to London," he shamelessly admitted, "but woe is me! You're keeping him too busy with your problems for him to notice my subliminal pleas for hot, sweaty sex. Damn you, Malfoy, and your incessant neediness."

Pressing her face into Draco's chest, Granger tried to keep her giggling to a minimum.

Draco just tried to keep the vomit in his mouth.

"Listen, Malfoy, have you tried other ways to rid yourself of this curse?" Potter asked, ignoring Theo's antics and getting them back on track.

"I'm not an idiot, Potter. I've done the holy water, purifying fire, and every known counter-curse in the magical world, English or otherwise," he explained to the guy. "Nothing's worked."

Potter paced back and forth, trying to come up with alternatives.

"St. Mungo's?"

"I go there and they report it to the Ministry," Draco explained what they already knew. "There goes my Wizengamot prison pardon."

"Speaking to a hag?"

"Harry, you know what those creatures are like," Granger refuted. "I don't think Draco wants to bargain off the soul of his heir to any Rumpelstiltskin-type."

Theo turned to Draco. "Rumple-who?"

Draco shrugged. "No idea. Must be a Muggle thing."

"Burning sage?" Potter offered instead.

"That's for cleansing _spaces_ ," Granger pointed out, "not people."

"The kiss of a virgin?"

Draco turned to his girlfriend and gave her a questioning look. She turned bright red and elbowed him in the gut, hard.

"Not an option," he diplomatically said with a wince, feeling for broken ribs.

"Throwing salt over your shoulder?"

Granger sighed. "That's not really a thing, Harry."

"Well, have you just tried dying?" 

Everyone just looked at the Boy-Saviour like he was off his gourd for suggesting such a thing.

"Alright, fine," the guy said, clearly disappointed. "I thought that plan had merit, though."

When no other options were presented, Granger clapped her hands together. "The Elixir of Life it is," she said, cheerfully. "And the good news is we've only one more ingredient left to get: Antipodean Opaleye blood."

Potter groaned and pressed his forehead to Theo's shoulder. "A Class A Non-Tradeable Good. Totally and utterly illegal to import." He sighed with a heavy resignation. "I'm getting the boot from the Aurors before I've even passed the training phase, aren't I?" 

Nott wrapped his arms around his lover and comforted him with placating pats to his bum.

"Think Zabini might have that in his secret stash?" Theo asked the room. "Or are we desperate enough to go to Hagrid yet?"

Hermione snapped her fingers, as if she had an alternative solution.

"I think...I might know someone else who could help us, and he is an expert at dodging the Ministry, too, according to his biography."

**o.O.o**

Newton Scamander was a kindly elderly chap of one-hundred and one years, and the foremost global expert on magical creatures.

He was also a pen-pal of Hermione Granger's, apparently.

Nicholas Flammel, Sirius Black, Viktor Krum, and now Newton Scamander... With all that letter writing she'd done in her short life, when had the women found the time to actually do her homework, Draco wondered. What, was she some kind of Chronomagi with access to a Time-Turner or something?

Case in point, over the years Granger and Scamander had often corresponded and traded ideas regarding the legal fight for the rights and listings of magical creatures. She'd kept the stack of their letters in her private correspondence box on a shelf in her room; the notes were bundled together and tied with a yellow ribbon and she considered them among her most prized possessions. "Someday, I may publish a book about Mister Scamander," she told Draco during one of their evening debates in the library when he asked her why she'd bothered to keep the man's missives. "I'd need them for reference. Did you know he's encouraged me to pursue a career in the D.M.C. after Hogwarts?" 

Basically, the man was one of Granger's heroes and so she was determined to put her best foot forward in asking him for advice on how to acquire some Opaleye blood.

Hypothetically, of course.

Since this was important to her, Draco felt it was his duty to kit her up for the job...

"You're giving me your bottle of Faber-Castell Viper Green ink?" she asked, breathless with wonder and reverence as she held it in her hands and turned it up towards the sunlight to look at it from all angles. "Oh, Draco, this is... It's... Thank you!"

"There's more." He pulled out a packet of parchment and a special quill, the best of his stash. "Paper from the ganpi plant and a quill with an—"

"—Occamy feather!"

She nearly fainted at the sight of his gifts.

"Oh, these are... I don't know what to say! This is a fortune in supplies, and the very best, too!"

"It's me who's thankful, Granger," he admitted, setting aside the gifts and taking her hands. "You're doing this for me. I owe you so much. More than I can ever repay. I don't know what I've done to deserve you."

When she didn't immediately reply, he glanced up.

Her dark, expressive eyes were shining again, and the _hunger_ in them...

With a kittenish pounce, she knocked him back into his chair in their favourite library nook and crawled into his lap.

A series of privacy spells and a carefully creative _Diffindo_ later, and Draco was forever a changed man.


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

**December, 1998**

Hermione's letter-writing campaign to Scamander succeeded, and he was able to put her in touch with a contact in Australia who had access to the Opaleyes on the New Zealand reserve. In order to take the dragon's blood, however, they needed an excuse as the Auckland branch of the Oceania Ministry closely monitored the health and viability of the last wild herd of dragons in their region—and they'd hired retired members of various wizarding constabulary from around the globe to guard the sanctuary against poachers.

It was Potter who suggested they speak to Charlie Weasley and ask him if there was some aid he could officially offer them, seeing as how he was the head of the Romanian dragon reserve.

"We'll have to go through Ginny," Granger told him as they sat across from each other in the Library. "I don't have the reserve's location, much less the postal box where the staff pick up their mail. She would probably know, though."

Fortunately, the little Weasel did know where big brother was located and how to reach him, and so Granger was able to reach out to the Romanian reserve's Head Conservationist and Rehabilitator to ask for his assistance. He wrote back he could be there within a day to discuss the particulars of her request.

The next morning, as he stepped through the Floo at the Hogsmeade station to meet them, Draco's first thought was that Charlie Weasley was one of those muscles-for-hire who could drown a tanker of beer in one sitting and still successfully wrestle a Chimaera to the floor. Not as tall as Draco, but built like the animals he venerated—stocky and strong, he looked to be able to hit with all the force of a dragon. He was as tan as a redhead could get, with a face full of freckles and coppery hair faded from the sun, and when he held out his hand to shake Draco's, it was scarred and heavy. 

When he gave Granger the once over, with blue eyes filled with interest, Draco thought he could happily drown the man in acid. 

"Look who's all grown up," Charlie said, gently pulling one of Granger's wayward curls. "My how the time flies, poppet."

Draco saw red. The bastard was moving in on his witch, right in front of him!

Granger shook her head and laughed. "We were at the same picnic at the Burrow this past summer, Charlie. It's only been six months."

He shrugged those mammoth shoulders and grinned a smile so perfectly white and straight that Draco felt the urge to smash his fist through it just to ruin the façade. "You were with little Ronniekins then. I didn't notice."

Much to Draco's immense satisfaction, Granger stepped back into him and took his gloved hand in hers. "Well, I'm sure you've heard that Ron has moved on, and so have I."

Weasley's eyes dipped to their clasped hands. "Eh, his loss." He looked over at Draco and grinned. "Your gain."

"Obviously," Draco said, giving his new rival a flat smile. "She's much too good for mere mortal man, but I do my best."

Their 'guest' chuckled and the posturing was dropped. "So, what's this urgency you've got going for my dragons?"

Granger looked over at him and she and Draco shared a silent moment where their eyes communicated her question as to how much she could tell Charlie Weasley about the problem, and Draco made it clear not much. She nodded, and then turned back to Charlie.

"Let's go for a drink," she offered. "The Hog's Head is under new management."

"I heard," Weasley said, stepped along side them as they headed for the pub. "Old Aberforth is really giving retirement a go, then?"

Draco walked at Granger's side down the snowy street, contributing nothing to the conversation and instead listening to the easy back-and-forth his girl and her ex's older brother shared. On the surface, there was the comradery of having been soldiers on the same side of a war, but underneath it, the comfortable sense of family coming together again. And yet, despite that deeper level of intimacy, there was clearly no attraction on Granger's side for the rugged Dragon Tamer. Charlie Weasley might be an alpha predator under that easy-going, cunt-licking smile of his, but to the witch between them, there had been no question as to which wizard she wanted.

She'd chosen Draco.

The knot in his shoulders eased, and when she squeezed his palm once to let him know she understood and was sorry he'd felt threatened at all, reassuring him of her choice, he squeezed back to let her know he loved her.

**o.O.o**

Weasley, for all his douchery at the start of the day, had been decent about agreeing to help them in their experimental aspirations for a cure-all for curses by the end. 

As promised, Granger had been vague enough in her explanations to the man for needing an Opaleye's blood, citing merely the desire to test its veracity as a healing option against dark curses lingering around post-war. Charlie seemed on-board for the idea, especially as any sort of curse-cure could be marketed as a thirteenth use for dragon's blood and he felt that might go a long way in helping in the legal battles regarding dragon protections and rights on an international scale. He'd agreed to help her ask the Auckland reserve if it would be willing to donate a few vials of the blood during its annual exams of the dragons to her cause. Apparently, the rehabilitation part of a Dragon Caretaker's duties included semi-annual medical exams of every dragon, once in the summer and once in the winter. It was required to ensure the animals were disease-free and that there were no anomalies that could interrupt their breeding abilities, since their populations had withered over the centuries to only handfuls of each species around the globe. 

In other words, it was the perfect excuse for the wildlife caretakers to extract a few extra vials of blood in exchange for a generous donation to the reserve.

Granger nudged him with her elbow. "Here's your chance to make the world jump to your tune, Mister Vaults Overflowing. Or was that just you bragging as usual?"

He tickled her for her sass...and then later, spent a few hours kissing those same spots to hear the other sounds she could make when properly stimulated.

In the afters of their romp, Granger lay contented in his arms, her back to his chest. She lifted one of his gloved hands, the only article of clothing he insisted needed to stay on, and cradled it to her face.

"We're going to fix this," she promised him. "I want to feel your hands on me someday soon."

"Just on you?" he teased, cupping her between her legs with his other hand. "How very unimaginative of you, Granger."

She giggled, and then moaned as he pressed harder.

"Why do you never call me by my first name?" she asked as she wiggled her bottom against him. "What do I need to do to hear you cry my name like you make me scream yours?"

"I respond well to bribes," he suggested, feeling himself rousing back to life. "Why don't you try that and see where it gets you."

She playfully sighed, as if it was a tremendous effort he was asking of her.

"If I must," she conceded, and turned around, sliding down the bed they'd rented for the afternoon above the pub.

Granger did, indeed, win that round and as usual, got everything she wanted from him.

**o.O.o**

A week later, they were again in the Library, finalizing their recipe for the Philosopher's Stone potion and arguing about every little nuance.

They wouldn't have many chances to get it right in the lab, seeing as how difficult many of the ingredients were to obtain, so they had to make sure it was as perfect on paper as they could make it. The order in which the elements were added, the number of times and direction one stirred or didn't, the amount of heat...it all had to be considered and reconsidered when in combination with the other ingredients. The task would have been impossible for an average potions dabbler, but Draco was an enthusiast and had studied under his godfather, Snape, personally, from the time he was small. And Granger...well, the witch's mind was designed to find holes in any problem and plug them with the right solution. 

Still, the tension was mounting. They both wanted this cure to work so desperately that it was making them as looney as a mad dog howling at the sun. 

And everyone noticed.

"You need to just fuck it out of your systems," Theo advised across the Divination table, loud enough that everyone could hear. "Works better to relax you than a lavender scented sachet, I swear."

When Trelawney looked over at that in surprise, Draco felt his face flame as hot as one of her predictions.

Later that afternoon, Brown cornered him as he was just about to enter the men's second floor loo.

"Shag her or gag her," the woman growled. "She's bloody irritating when she's on a tear."

He sighed. "What are you babbling about this time?"

"If I'm lectured by Granger one more time on _anything_ this week," the woman snarled, "I'm holding you personally responsible for not doing your damned job and silencing her by any means necessary!"

She punched him in the shoulder hard enough to hurt and then swept past him, snarling under her breath about Slytherin men all being dumber than dogs.

When Little Red plonked her arse down across from him at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, he knew it was going to be another piece of unsolicited sex advice, so he decided to head her off at the pass.

"Yes, I know Granger's in a mood. I know she needs something distracting to get her out of it. It's bloody hard to shag someone who wants to bite your dick off, though!"

"Then let her," the girl advised, "before Lavender bites Hermione's head clean off or Theo stuffs it full of bad jokes and mails it to a Sphinx to play with."

He had to shut his eyes and take a moment so he wouldn't lose his cool. Didn't anyone around here think that, maybe, he was also in a bad way? The cure was supposed to be for _him_ , after all, so he could be rid of the last of Voldemort's tainted influence upon him and behave like a relatively normal eighteen-year-old who could freely touch his girlfriend's assets with his bare hands. Yet, at the rate they were progressing, it was going to continue to be an arduous slog to the finish line, perhaps years rather than months. It was frustrating to the point of madness!

"We're working on something—" he tried to explain.

"A cure, I know," the Weaselette replied, nonchalant.

Merlin's balls, that was supposed to be a secret!

Draco threw his hands up in the air and demanded, "Who told?"

"She's my best friend, Malfoy. You don't really think there's anything I won't eventually find out if I want to, do you? Guilt is a many splendoured thing, especially when used to solicit information from the unwilling."

Good gods, did she just quote a Salazar Slytherin-ism?!

"You've been hanging out with Zabini for too long," he said.

"That man does rub off in all the right ways, doesn't he?"

Draco made a face. "I didn't need the visual, thanks."

"Anytime," she said with a wicked grin. "So, are you going to do something romantic to appease Hermione's frustration, or am I just going to have to shove you both in the dark tower for a week to work it out?"

That evening, Draco met up with Hermione in their favourite study nook in the Library, and this time, he was the one to ward it with a myriad of Silencing and Notice-Me-Not and Repelling charms to give them some alone time in a location guaranteed to get her libido purring.

She did, after all, have a 'thing' for parchment.

As Hermione stood before their table and unpacked her satchel, her back was to him. Draco used that to his advantage.

Stepping behind her, he caged her between his arms and leaned down until his mouth was against her ear. "Do you know what's going to happen the first time the gloves come off?" He lightly nipped her sensitive lobe and she froze against him. "I'm going to map out every inch of you, Granger. Slowly. I'll learn every noise you can make, memorize every reaction you have." He dropped his mouth to the pulse of her throat and nibbled upon it, too. "You'll lie back and give me everything. You'll let me explore to my heart's content, you'll take everything I do to you, and somewhere in the middle of all that, you'll beg me to ease you." 

She trembled in his arms and tilted her head to give him better access.

His gloved hands slipped to her hips, down the backs of her thighs and under her skirt. 

"Right now, though, I'm going to ease you a different way, one that'll exhaust that anger we're both carrying around."

"Gods, yes," she whined. "I need—"

"I know what you need, Hermione." He kissed her throat as he slid her knickers down over her hips and let them fall to the floor. "I need you, too."

He spent the next hour sating their impatience and soothing their tempers, until there were only exhausted bodies, sweet whispers, and sincere promises left behind.

After that, they got back to work.

**o.O.o**

Theo gave him a knowing smirk the next day, after he'd survived Astronomy with Granger.

Brown and the She-Weasel both nodded at him at lunch in the Great Hall.

Even McGonagall seemed more chipper that day.

And then THE PACKAGE came from Charlie Weasley, c/o Newton Scamander, and Draco knew things were finally looking up.


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Two weeks passed in a blur of work.

So entrenched in keeping up with their homework assignments and their recipe research after Weasley's package had arrived, neither Draco, nor Granger had much time for anything else, aside from their occasional 'tumble breaks' to keep the tension at bay. That was why the hosting of a Yule Ball this year caught them completely off-guard; McGonagall's note commanding them to attend had been a surprise when it had arrived. Apparently, the Headmistress expected them to participate in ‘this important inter-house unity event to set a good example for the younger generations’.

Granger never liked disappointing her mentor, and so Draco had no choice but to attend as well, knowing he couldn't very well skip-out on their first Christmas events together. Some mistakes couldn't be taken back, and he'd vowed to stop making those kind after the war.

The dance was set for the night of the 23rd, the day before they were to break for the winter holidays, and he’d Owl’d his mother right away for her to forward on his formal robes for the occasion, assuming Hermione would go with him. However, as the date fast approached, and he realised he hadn’t yet seen his girlfriend shop for a dress for the occasion, he worried that, perhaps, she’d outright dismiss the Headmistress’ requirements again to instead tuck herself away with books in the library all that night.

That just wouldn’t do. At the end of his life, he didn’t want to look back at this time with her and remember only a slew of consecutive nights spent studying in the Hogwarts library. He wanted memories with Granger, enough to last a life time...especially as there was a voice in his head still worried she would eventually dump him for greener pastures.

The Monday night before the event, he glanced over nervously at Granger across their study table and tried to think of the perfect way to ask her to accompany him to the ball. She was scribbling away on a parchment that already stretched to the floor, using the ink he’d gifted her. Apparently, she _really_ liked the scent of it, because she wore a dab of it daily on the inside of her wrists like it was some kind of perfume. The green dot peeked out from under her jumper now as she wrote in a furious flutter all the thoughts in her industrious mind.

“You don’t really need those glasses do you?” she asked, never looking up from her writing. “Your eyes don’t dilate right when you wear them and read.”

Her words startled the piss out of him.

“H-how—?”

She glanced up with a naughty grin.

“How do you think I knew when Harry was actually studying versus when he was lost in his thoughts?”

Draco blinked…and removed the glasses.

"Sorry, I was only—"

"Hoping to catch my attention by being a sneaky Slytherin?" she guessed. "It definitely worked. They look fetching on you." She threw him a provocative glance. "Keep them, if you want. I don't mind."

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, gathering what little courage he could and hoping that being honest, for once, wasn't going to backfire on him. 

"Granger...there's something you need to know."

She paused in her writing and gave him her full attention.

"I-I've schemed since the beginning of term to win you over. I knew you could help me somehow find a way out of my predicament." He held up his gloved hands. "You were my best chance at a cure, given your intelligence, and I knew you were willing to stand up for me in court, so I...buttered you up. I just didn't expect—"

Her Occamy feather brushed back and forth against her chin as she sat back in her chair and considered his confession.

"I thought I'd use you for a rebound," she finally admitted, blushing with shame. "To get even with Ron."

"A revenge hookup? Why? What idiotic thing did he do to you, exactly?"

She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable discussing it, but in typical Granger-fashion, she forged ahead anyhow. "You have to understand, I'd fancied Ron since the end of first year, when he'd done something I'd thought to be incredibly brave. So, for me, he'd been my first true love...at least, with a child's understanding of the notion. So, although I'd dated Viktor Krum for a bit between fourth, fifth, and sixth years, that wasn't a real relationship. We'd exchanged letters, visited each other on holidays, kissed twice. It had all been very innocent, really, and no strong emotional investment from either end because of the distance. I'd liked and admired Viktor very much, but it hadn't been love."

"But you had loved Weasley?"

She tilted her head in a gesture that said his contention was debatable. "I'd thought it was love at the time, but in retrospect, it was clearly one-sided. I'd seen only what I'd wanted to, because Ron's actions all along had made it clear that he was more interested in sex and his ego, than in making a connection with someone else. And once he'd gotten that from me, he'd quickly lost interest. Three weeks and he was giving me the, 'it's not you, it's me' speech. A few days after breaking up with me, he was with someone new. When that didn't last long and he was on to his next conquest, I knew he'd lied. It wasn't me at all that was the problem, and he was too immature for what I needed and wanted in both a friend and a lover. I'd only clung to a fancy for him because I knew him and he was safe, but we were a bad match from the start, really."

Her expression was so crestfallen that Draco actually wanted to get up, hunt down Weasley, and beat the ever-loving shite out of the guy. How could he have claimed to be her friend, to have fucked away her virginity, and then tossed her aside like yesterday's news? 

Bastard.

"Still, what Ron did to me caused me to despise him, and it hurt me so much that I'd wanted to hurt him back. So, when you came along..." She flushed again, clearly mortified by her thoughts and actions in their case. "What better way to anger Ron than to take up with his bitterest rival in school? But, Draco, you have to know that I have actually come to care for you. What we have has been a pleasant surprise. I like it."

"I like it, too," he admitted.

"So, er, I suppose we'd both planned to use each other at the start of things," she reiterated, "but it seems things have changed. For the better, I think."

Granger was right. This relationship had been one of those miracles a man didn't see coming until it smacked him square in the jaw. Now that he had sampled it, he found he didn't want to do what that idiot Weasley had done and throw it away. It... _she_ had become too important to him, and what they'd found together felt rare.

They sat in silence for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts.

Ironically, Granger's plan to use him for a little revenge was as Slytherin a plan as they came. He had to admire her for being spiteful enough to come up with the idea, because it meant she wasn't the type to just sit back and let people run roughshod over her without consequences. She may have had a lion's bravado, but she definitely had a snake's bite.

And didn't that just turn him on?

“So, not a rebound?" he asked, needing to be absolutely sure where her feelings lay.

There was no hesitation in her when she said, "No, that stopped being the plan as I came to know the real you. Once I realised the lengths you'd go to keep me from running away from you—trying to convince me not to panic over how Amortentia smelled, for instance—all I wanted to do was kiss you, so that became the new goal." A hint of the playful witch he loved reemerged as her gaze quickly dipped to his lips. "I was quite obsessed with that objective, actually. You do have a very wicked mouth, Draco Malfoy."

That made him raise an eyebrow.

"Granger, are you objectifying me?"

Her cheeks pinked, but her eyes said she enjoyed their back-and-forth banter.

"You've grown into a pretty man," she teased him. "It can't be helped."

He gave her a flat-eyed stare.

"Pretty? Why not just call me 'cute' and finish emasculating me?"

Eyes wide, she dared asked, "Would you prefer 'lovely' instead?"

He snorted and picked his book back up, raising it so he could ignore her.

"How about 'beauteous'?"

"Keep it up, Granger..."

"Pulchritudinous?"

"You made that word up."

Her grin was as bright as the stars. "I'm not that clever."

"You're brilliant and you know it," he said.

Granger sighed with happiness. “I know,” she replied and went back to writing. 

The sounds of her quill scratching on the parchment were loud in the sudden silent stretch.

Draco felt the sweat gather at his forehead as he mentally prepared and subsequently threw out several different ways to ask her to the Yule Ball.

Finally, he settled on, “You're probably much too smart to attend the ball with someone like me.”

Her hand stopped moving and the scratching stopped, but she didn’t look up.

Draco’s heart was lodged in his throat as he waited for her answer.

“Pick me up at seven,” she finally said and then continued to write. “I’ll be wearing Gryffindor red.”

Very carefully, he let out the breath he’d been holding and grinned at his unfathomable luck. “Of course you will,” he teased, knowing now what colour to charm his tie and waistcoat to match. “And I’ll bring you a green corsage.”

She chuckled.

“Of course you will.”

**o.O.o**

Draco nearly didn’t take his witch to the ball that Wednesday night.

When she’d finally appeared from behind her portrait door and he’d gotten a good glimpse of her in her floor-length red dress, his first act was to gape at her like a besotted fool—much as he had at the Yule Ball they’d attended in fourth year.

His second act was to grab her hand and drag her around the corner into a curtained nook and ravish her mouth until the glamour on her lipstick threatened to come undone.

“You like my dress, I take it?” she asked with a knowing gleam in her eye.

“I like it _all,_ ” he admitted with a growl and ran his gloved hands all up and down her body, dragging her into intimate contact with his arousal. He was hard and ready for her. “I’d like it more if I was taking the dress off you, though.”

She lightly smacked his shoulder.

“Don’t you dare! It took Ginny a wedge and a Slipping Charm to get me into this thing,” she joked. “And I have an entire bottle of Sleekeazy’s in my hair, so we have to go to the ball, or I’ll have wasted all those galleons.”

He nibbled her throat and resorted to bribes and begging. “I’ll fund a competing hair products company and name you Madam President. We’ll even pay a fair wage to the elves I know you’ll hire. Whatever you want, Granger, just let me under your knickers!”

She giggled.

“What knickers?”

He froze and somewhere inside him, his Animagus ferret form (which he would never let anyone see _ever_ again) excitedly wagged his white, fluffy tail.

“You…you’re not…?”

“Maybe I’ll let you find out,” she teased. “Later, though.”

He whined like the pathetic sod he was for this witch.

“Promise?”

Her laugh was downright wicked.

“Yes, but only if you earn it.”

With a resigned sigh, he agreed.

It wasn’t until days later that he recalled where he’d heard her say such a thing to him before…

**o.O.o**

Christmas Eve morning, he met up with Granger on the train platform back in Hogsmeade. All students, regardless of age, were required to patron the official transportation back and forth from the school and London, and so they decided to get a private compartment to continue the previous evening’s activities.

Once the curtain had been drawn and the door locked and warded, Granger was on him, shoving him back into the seat and kissing him like she was a sexually starved Veela.

“I take it you liked my gift then,” he said around her claiming his mouth.

“Very much,” she agreed, flashing him the simple, yet elegant charm bracelet he’d purchased through the Owl post earlier in December, and which he’d imbued with special magic of his own. “I can actually feel your magical aura in it. I haven’t been able to determine what spell you cast on it, though.”

“Guess,” he offered, knowing how she loved a good riddle.

She touched it reverently, and then threw him a naughty grin.

“Lust spell?”

“Tsk, should have thought of that,” he admitted. “No, not on this piece. The next one I give you will definitely have that benefit.”

Her cheeks went a lovely shade of dark pink at that promise.

“Hmmm. Shield spell?”

“Close.”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned over ideas, and then went wide when she’d guessed it.

“A healing charm.”

He nodded and reached out to stroke over it with one gloved hand.

“It’ll cure almost any ailment or injury,” he bragged. “Madam Pomfrey helped me with the spell, as it's advanced Zoemancy. She says I have a real aptitude for the healing arts...which is rather ironic, really, given my curse. Still, I thought that since you're planning to go to some exotic locale over the break without me to watch out for you, this would have to do the job for me.”

Her eyes did that shiny-with-tears thing, gazing upon him as if he was her sun and moon, and everything inside of him went warm and happy.

For the first time in his life, he felt truly worthy.

“I couldn’t protect you…before,” he confessed, referring to the incident at his manor house, when she’d been carved into by a mad relative and he’d stood by, helpless and frustrated, knowing Bellatrix would have turned on him or his father in a heartbeat, so much did she hate that her sister had anything to do with them. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Speechless, she instead kissed him…which led to several hours of pleasurable pursuits.

They’d barely gotten her redressed when the knock came from the Head Girl to let them know they were twenty minutes out from the station.

“I never asked,” his girlfriend said as she quickly attempted to put her hair up and back into some sort of containment bun. “Did you like my gift?”

“Does a Slytherin delight in trouble?” He grinned as he pulled several curls free from her chignon, threatening to tumble the whole mess so it fell around her shoulders again. He rather liked her hair disheveled, especially from his attentions. “What aspiring Potions Master _wouldn’t_ treasure the complete recipe to a Philosopher's Stone to add to his grimoire?”

“I can’t wait to dive into it with you,” she told him, a bit misty eyed. "Don't start without me. It's only two weeks."

"I wouldn't dare." He took her into his arms and kissed the top of her frizzy head. "I'll miss you, too."

The plan was for them to spend the Christmas and New Year's break with their individual parents. Draco didn't want to leave his mother alone at the Manor during the holiday, and he planned to visit his father in Azkaban too, and Granger had an international portkey already in place to visit Australia to peek in on her parents. Apparently, her attempt to remove the Memory Charm she'd placed on them prior to the last year of the war had failed to reverse, but she refused to give up and was going out there to check in on them. Lovegood, Brown, and Newt Scamander were trailing along behind her, too, as a sort of group holiday. Granger had wanted to thank the elderly gent, in particular, for his help in obtaining the Opaleye blood, and to apologise to her friends for her behaviour this past term, and so arranged for everyone's portkey and stay Down Under. Their plan was to visit the Australian and New Zealand creature reserves and to catch some sun and waves, as it was the height of summer in the southern hemisphere.

"If Charlie Weasley shows up to join your little expedition, feed him to one of the dragons for me."

She laughed away her tears and swatted at his hands in their distracting attempts to loosen her hair.

"And bring me back a bag of those Witchetty Grubs," he requested as she fixed her bun. "And a bag of Clouds. And some Wizz Fizz." 

“Your excessive love of sweets is going to rot your teeth out of your head someday,” she warned with a teasing smile. "But, fine. I'll indulge you this one time...but only if you earn it."

Once more, as those words were spoken by her, a shiver of anticipation ran up Draco’s spine.

“Oh, I will,” he promised and kissed her until they were knocked off balance by the train slowing down as it approached the station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witchetty Grubs, Clouds, and Wizz Fizz are all real candy brands from Australia.


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

**January, 1999**

Draco had spent some of the winter break shopping for the perfect cauldron, and distillation and alembic setup he and Granger would need to finally get down to brewing the Philosopher's Stone potion once they returned to school. The cost had been exorbitant, but worth it, and he'd had it shipped ahead to the castle in advance of their arrival. 

The rest of the time he'd spent cheering his mother's spirits and visiting his father in Azkaban. It had been a gloomy reunion with both and he'd walked on eggshells for most of it, but he'd done his best to not tarry on topics guaranteed to bring down the mood or to misstep in his choice of words. As a result, there had only been a few tears shed, and his father hadn't once railed at him to do better. In that regard, he'd considered the holiday an overall win.

Now he was back at King's Cross, waiting for Granger to appear with an eagerness he could hardly contain.

The oceans between them had made Floo-calls and owling letters impossible over the break, so he hadn't seen nor heard from her in two weeks. Sure, he was gagging for some horizontal alone time with his witch, but more than that, he just wanted to hold her again. He'd missed her soft, warm body against his, and even her ability to drive him insane with both her lectures and her need to argue about _everything_. He longed to return to their routine of meeting up daily, if only to spend a few minutes at her side before their class schedules sent them off to different parts of the castle.

...

...

...Alright, so he'd gone nauseatingly Hufflepuff soft over Hermione Granger and Snape was probably turning over in his grave for it.

Did Granger love him back, though?

Could she?

Love for anyone other than family was a weakness to many in his circle, a vulnerability that could be used to destroy a person. It was a kind of slow death, or so he’d been told time and again. That was why pure-blood custom dictated he choose a rich and politically-connected wife whom he could tolerate, produce an heir with her, and then maintain separate lives in the marriage, enjoying a string of temporary mistresses for his sexual needs. Women in his class were not to be loved, but utilized.

But his parents had defied that custom, hadn’t they? Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were deeply in love with one another; had been from the moment they’d met back in their school days. Their marriage had been arranged _because_ Draco’s father had applied for his lover’s hand. That the middle daughter of the last of the Black dynasty met all of the ‘requirements’ of pure-blood practice had been the glue to seal the deal, but Draco suspected that even if she hadn't, his father would have found a way to have her. 

Now his parents were victimized by that same love, though—separated for the rest of their natural lives by the laws of other men. Lucius would rot in Azkaban, while Draco’s mother languished in the Manor, their love a fatal wound for both.

Should he love Granger, was the more important question? It could put him in a bad place if things went sideways.

…Hell, it was more likely their love would risk _her._ Granger would be getting the worst part of the deal given his current reputation. Association with the Malfoy name and defying society’s expectations might, in fact, cause her to be criticized, re-categorized…ostracized.

She had Ministry career aspirations that he could ruin for her.

And maybe being with her, especially after he’d attempted to manipulate her into helping him—another sign as to his unsuitability—wasn’t such a good idea after all.

“I certainly hope that frown isn’t for me.”

Sneaking up on him, Granger surprised him with her sudden appearance at his side.

The first thing Draco noticed was that she’d cut her hair. It was fashionably shorter, barely reaching her collar, with long, windswept fringe that was brushed to the side. The thick mass had been straightened and layered thin, and she held it back away from her face with a wooden hair band that looked to have been hand-carved.

The second was that she was noticeably tanner and the freckles stood out on the bridge of her nose…which was an adorable shade of pink compliments of the southern summer’s sun.

The third were her parents standing behind her, smiling with pride at their daughter.

“You’re early,” he pointed out, shaking off the gloom-and-doom and comfortably falling back into the familiar teasing that was their usual dynamic. “Overachieving again?”

She shrugged. “I missed you, I suppose.”

“You _suppose?_ Should I take that as some sort of backhanded Gryffindor challenge? _”_ he asked as he reached out and fingered her shorter hair. “I like this, by the way. It’s different.”

“Thanks, and yes, I’ve thrown you a gauntlet, Mister Malfoy, and you should definitely pick it up—later.”

It was clear from her provocative smirk just exactly what she expected him to do once they were alone on the train, and the fantasy had Draco’s body exiting its two week hibernation with a spring in its step.

Gods, he’d missed her!

She grabbed his hand and turned him. “Come meet my parents.”

The introductions were made in short-order. Richard and Eleanor Granger were separately the sum of Hermione’s parts: her father was the sensible and astute humanist while her mother was the bold and playful intellectual. They were the perfect couple, he a man of few words and she a woman filled with social graces. And it was clear they adored their only child, even if they didn't quite remember her beyond the previous summer's reintroduction and this Christmas break's visitation. At least they believed Hermione's wild tale of magical wars and memory charms now and were willing to welcome her into their lives...and to rejoin hers.

That they'd come with her back to England from clear across the world was a good sign, he thought.

Of course, they both immediately noticed his dragon-hide gloves when they shook hands, but given it was the dead of winter, they weren’t out of place. No one commented on them, much to Draco’s relief.

As Hermione clung to his arm and brought him into her small family group, Draco realized that he’d been wrong to discount her ability to overcome anything thrown her way. A quick glance around showed no one seemed concerned that their ‘Golden Heroine’ was openly claiming a former Death Eater as hers, and more importantly, she certainly didn’t seem to care what any of them actually thought about her relationships.

Where he was doubtful, she was secure. 

They worked the same as her parents did, and that fact settled the dilemma of his being in love with Hermione Granger.

Now he just needed to know if such a thing could ever be reciprocated.

**o.O.o**

"...Time isn’t on our side, so as soon as we get back, we’ll need to start the potion to make the Stone,” she explained as she stretched and yawned after a rather hot and sweaty romp in their privately warded train compartment. 

The Hogwarts Express was slowing as it neared the Hogsmeade station, signaling its impending arrival with a cheerful whistle. Outside, the sun had long-before set and the night sky twinkled a merry backdrop against the castle as it came into sight on the horizon.

“It’ll take a month to do that part properly, by my estimation, and we’ll have to take shifts, as the potion requires constant supervision,” she told him, sliding her clothing back into place. “The second part of the plan takes three months, so we’ll only just make it before the end of year if we time it right.”

“It should be ready right around the beginning of June then," he said. "Happy birthday to me!"

As they finished dressing and utilized their wands to fix hair and freshen up, Granger ran down the list of potential secret spots in the castle they might use for their experiments…and it hit Draco out of the blue that this was really happening.

Rationally, he'd known she'd come through for him when he'd opened her Christmas gift and unfurled the scroll with the exact recipe for the Philosopher's Stone, but it hadn't actually seemed real until just that second.

She’d found his cure.

Hermione Granger had, once more, done the impossible, just as he'd hoped.

He owed her a debt beyond what could be repaid, even if this didn't work exactly as planned. The effort she'd put into this...all for him.

Maybe she did love him already, too?

He bent and kissed her behind her ear, a spot he knew was an erogenous spot for her.

“You are a goddess among women, my witch.”

She sighed and leaned back into his arms. "I know," she said with a giggle.

"And incredibly modest, too."

"Mmm, I have to be to balance out my braggart boyfriend."

He tickled her for that until she cried, 'uncle'.

After, he held her steady in his arms and they looked out the window together at the passing scenery, bracing his feet for the inevitable lurch as the train came to a complete stop.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” he said in a quiet murmur against her ear. “No matter what else happens, I'm grateful we found each other.”

“Me, too,” she whispered and pressed herself deeper into his embrace. "Good things come in threes and the third time's the charm."

It took him a second to realise what she meant: she'd told him previously that she'd cared greatly for Viktor Krum, and everyone knew she'd been infatuated with the Weasel King, but neither of those relationships had worked. 

She was telling him she'd found love at last...with him.


	12. Epilogue

* * *

**~EPILOGUE~**

**December, 2014**

"...and Professor Hagrid said no one knows where the frog came from, but that it's grown as big as a Nundu and scares even the spiders now!"

Draco's son, Scorpius, excitedly yapped on and on to his two sets of enrapt grandparents, and his uncles, Theo and Harry, about all the wondrous things he'd discovered during his first term at Hogwarts—including the legend of one revenant frog still wandering about the Forbidden Forest.

His parents listened on in horror.

"They say Professor Longbottom is the only one who can approach it at all without being screamed at, but I've done it a few times without being bitten," Scorpius boasted. "It likes me!"

Granger pressed a trembling hand to her forehead and Draco did his best to resemble an invisible statue.

"Merlin's beard, did you say this creature hunts by squeaking so loudly, it's prey is temporarily stunned, giving the frog enough time to devour it? What a splendid predatory technique!" Rolf Scamander replied, engrossed in young Scorpius' tale. He turned to his wife, Luna Lovegood, who sat at his side, playing with her butter knife. "You don't suppose it's a _Pristimantis Gaigei Giganticus_ , do you?"

"Oh, dear lord! Are they discussing sexual positions again?" Brown growled in a tone low enough for only Hermione and Draco to hear. 

On her other side, her husband laughed. "Come on, baby, you weren't _that_ traumatized by their wedding vows, obviously," Charlie Weasley reminded her with a waggle of his ginger eyebrows and a pat to his new wife's very pregnant belly.

Draco nearly had an aneurysm from rolling his eyes so hard.

"The frog didn't actually eat a Centaur. It's mouth isn't big enough," Scorpius' twin sister, Alara, said with absolute certainty to her parents as her brother continued to spin the world's most colossal yarn for his listeners. Of the triplets, Alara was the most like Hermione, which was why the House Mistress of Ravenclaw regularly gave the girl detention. "It's biggest prey to date, according to Professor Hagrid," their daughter continued, "has been a Porlock that was brought in by the Headmistress of Beauxbatons when she came to visit a few years back. It escaped its leash, poor thing."

A chortling Zabini excused himself and rose from his seat at the table to assist his youngest son to the loo, while an alcohol-mellowed She-Weasel enjoyed her wine and played with her eight-year-old son's dark, curly hair just to annoy him.

"...And I've seen the frog actually belch fire," Scorpius continued to boast about Longbottom's dead frog as if he was particularly proud of it. "Melted a Blast-Ended Skrewt clean through once!"

"It did do that," Rose, the eldest of the triplets, confirmed for them all with a serious nod of her head. "It sent Professor Hagrid into a fit of hysterics." 

Granger gently elbowed Draco and leaned towards him. "We really need to do something about that...soon," she hissed under her breath at him. "Before things get out of hand."

Yes, the thought had occurred to him as well.

"One spray canister of Elixir of Life, coming right up," he suggested.

"Hypothetically speaking, of course," Granger added with a giggle, since the Elixir of Life had been outlawed by the Ministry the moment they'd discovered that she had recreated the formulae for a Philosopher's Stone and had used it to cure Draco's little Voldemort-inspired problem fifteen years earlier. Possession of any Elixir now by any wizarding citizen in Britain was an automatic Azkaban sentence. Since Draco had no intention of ever seeing the inside of that place again after having successfully negotiated a trade of the Stone's recipe for his father's release from prison, that meant they were going to have to handle the situation with some delicacy...and a lot of stealth. 

Later.

Right now, they had a Christmas to celebrate.

**o.O.o**

After dinner, the party moved into the manor's redecorated Sitting Room to exchange gifts. Scorpius continued to prattle on about Longbottom's 'amazing' frog to anyone who would listen to him.

"...communicates telepathically, too," the boy told them all. "It's smarter than Alara, even."

His sister snorted in disagreement, but was too busy right at that moment to reply as she was handing out the gifts that had been stowed under the tree to their rightful owners. Once everyone had a present, they opened them simultaneously.

Draco gave his wife a sly grin as he revealed her gift to him.

"Dragonhide leather gloves, really?" 

She shrugged. "I have many fond memories of the last pair you wore," she told him with a naughty smile and that _hungry_ expression in her sparking brown eyes that always got him hard. "I rather miss the feel of them."

Nostalgic memories of the times they'd had before he'd been cured set his heart to pounding. There had been some bloody good uses for those gloves, he had to admit, and a repeat of those times now that they were older and more expert in the bedroom...

Yes, please.

"Later," she whispered the promise to him as she leaned in for a kiss.

Once everyone had opened their gifts, Scorpius announced there was one more present that he had: one for him and his two sisters. 

"Because, as Mama and Papa always say, good things come in threes," he said.

He went behind the tree and pushed out a medium-sized box that had clearly been wrapped by an eleven-year-old boy with far too much access to tape. Fortunately, all it took was a first-year's charm to open it up.

_Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak!_

_Squeeak!_

_Squeeeeeeeeeak!_

"Aren't they WICKED?!" Scorpius said, beaming like a proud papa as he pulled from the box three small Desert Rain Frogs. "They're just babies right now, but Professor Hagrid said they'll grow to be as big as their mama someday!" He handed one off to each of his sisters, and each one of them had that ridiculous pink tongue lolling out of its mouth, past a pair of tiny little fangs. "Like I said, they're smart. They bond like a familiar, so...these can be ours! We'll have a matching set!"

Alara and Rose looked at each other with amusement, but petted their frogs, clearly delighted by the soft, croaking things.

Everyone else seemed to think the gifts were 'cute'...'lovely'...'beautous'...whatever.

Draco turned to Hermione.

"We're going to need a lot more Elixir, Granger. You _do_ remember the formulae, right? _Right?!_ "

She sighed in resignation.

"Well, at least there's a Library here at the manor," she said. "I just hope you have more of that ink and parchment I like so much, Malfoy. It seems we're going to need it."

_**~FIN~** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pristimantis Gaigei is a species of carnivorous frog. I added the 'Giganticus' to make it to make it sound official.


End file.
